Demons Versus Detectives
by dinosoprano
Summary: When Sherlock and John are thrust into a strange case involving corpses with missing hearts they find they have been thrown into world they never knew existed. They find themselves in the United States working alongside two headstrong brothers, a crazy Scottish man, and a young London school teacher as they fight an evil that may very well kill them all...and destroy the world.
1. August 2015

**A/N : I know, I know, I haven't finished the ten million other stories I've written but this one has been bouncing around in my head and I had to write it before it melted away into nothingness. I promise I will get back to the others. I graduated this May so I will have a lot more time to write. Anyway, I don't own Doctor Who, Supernatural or Sherlock but own various paraphernalia from all three. Now onto the story!**

 **August 2015**

The countryside flew by in a blur of blue, green, and brown as the car sped through the summer landscape of the English countryside. The gravel road crunched beneath the tires as the car drove over it. John Watson sat in the driver's seat, both hands on the wheel, his wedding band standing out in stark contrast to his almost colorless hands because he was holding the wheel so tight. He wasn't a big fan of dirt roads but his passenger was too deep in his own thoughts to have been able to drive. John shifted uncomfortably in his black coat. It was getting pretty toasty in the car and the air conditioner had broken sometime back in June. He couldn't roll the windows down either and unless he wanted to be coated in a fine layer of dust.

John glanced at the passenger seat. His best friend, Sherlock Holmes, was currently occupying this seat. His eyes were closed and his hands were steepled beneath his chin. He had been unusually quiet throughout this whole case. What had started out as something strange and wonderful to Sherlock had turned into something of a nightmare. Several weeks back Greg Lestrade said that two of his men had found the body of a well-to-do businessman in a rubbish heap outside his girlfriend's apartment complex. What caught Sherlock's attention was the fact that the body seemed perfectly intact if it weren't for the gaping hole in his chest where his heart should be. At first it looked like the girlfriend had done it, but when they spoke to the girl she said she had been in Germany for a lecture series she was speaking in. Her alibi was solid. Still, Sherlock was not deterred. He hacked into her accounts to see if she had taken enough out to hire a hit on him. Nothing. He looked into the girlfriend's past to see if she if she had a disgruntled ex. She had one ex and he had gotten married four years previous so it was highly unlikely he would be angry she was with someone else.

That was when the second body was found. Greg had called and told John and Sherlock to meet him at a local dump. When they arrived, Greg had led them to a spot the police had taped off. Sitting on top of the rubbish heap was a little girl with blonde curls and freckles. She wore a cheerleading outfit for a middle school only a few blocks away. Greg confirmed her name was Emily Rossman, 13, and that her house was about three or four blocks from here. Her parents had called her in missing last night when she didn't return from cheer practice. The body was a grisly sight but Sherlock knelt by her body and examined the gaping wound in her chest.

"Her heart is missing," he murmured. Suddenly, it went from possibly an unhappy girlfriend to a serial killer. John knelt down as well to examine the damage. Her chest had been physically ripped open in a violent manner. It also looked like there were bite marks on the arteries and veins around where her heart should have been. Was there some sicko out there who was sicking his dog on random strangers?

When they met with Molly that afternoon in the morgue she didn't ease either of their fears. She was very shakened by the whole ordeal, seemingly near tears as she monotonously gave her report. She said that both the businessman and Emily had been alive when their hearts had been removed. She also said John had been right when he thought the teeth marks were canine but not of the domestic kind; they resembled that of a wolf. John furrowed his brow as she spoke. There hadn't been wolves in Britain for years. Perhaps it was a Pit bull or a Rottweiler or a German shepherd? The strangeness of the attack didn't stop there. What really shook them all was that she had found ample amounts of human saliva in the wound. John could feel the bile crawling up his throat and he noticed Greg was probably feeling his lunch too. Sherlock on the other hand only hardened his face. John recognized this look. This killer had crossed a line and Sherlock would not rest until the killer was brought to justice in one way or another.

Molly continued saying she had found dog hairs on the victim's clothing but had been unable to identify the species. She said it was very wolf-like but it didn't quite match. There were also deep gouges on the arms of both victim's as though they had thrown their arms up in defense. They were clustered in groups of five lines, with one not quite lined up with the others as though that toe was facing a slightly different direction; like an opposable thumb.

The murders didn't stop there either. The next day, a man in his early thirties was found in his car mauled the same way as the other two victims. The windshield had been smashed to bits. Sherlock found trace amounts of blood from the attacker. The results came up muddled, canine but not quite. That night Sherlock got a call from Wiggins confirming one of the Homeless Network had been mauled in a shopping center parking lot. Both were missing their hearts and Sherlock was no closer to finding a killer. Her grew increasingly frustrated to the point where John threatened to tie him down because he was frightening Mrs. Hudson with shouts and vigorous violin playing.

Then, right when Sherlock thought he had a decent lead, the attacks stopped. For whatever reason, the serial killer decided to take a break. Due to lack in activity the trail ran cold and Sherlock fell into stony acknowledgement that he had lost this one. Greg stuck the files in the cold case bin and everyone fell into an uneasy routine of normal life. John could have sworn he caught Sherlock going back to that case every now and then between cases as though he thought he might find something he had missed.

Then exactly one month from the first attack another body turned up. This one came from a park in Bristol. It appeared that the victim, a young woman in her mid-20's, had been on an evening jog when she was mauled. John and Sherlock had just left the local morgue in hopes that they might find something at the crime scene. Like all the other bodies, her heart was violently ripped from her.

"Turn right at the next junction," Sherlock murmured. John nearly jumped out of his skin. He hadn't expected Sherlock to say anything and last he'd checked, Sherlock's eyes had been closed.

"Sure thing," John replied. He slowed down as he came to the turn and pulled into a parking lot for a trailhead. It was late afternoon so most of the people present were chatting around cars as they packed up their hiking gear. Some people whispered as they realized Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were pulling in. Still famous outside London it would seem. The two men climbed out of the car. Sherlock headed straight for the trail ignoring all the gasps and pointing in his direction. John smiled and waved before hurrying after him.

They were on the trail for about 45 minutes before Sherlock stopped. On the trail ahead of him was the unmistakable mark of a bloodstain. It was a bit scuffed up from people walking over it so the original spill radius was lost. The mortician had mentioned something about the police deeming it an animal attack and saw no reason to close down the trail. Judging by Sherlock's grunt as he looked around he disagreed. John noticed that the foliage to the right of the trail was torn and trampled.

"He must have come from this side of the trail," John said pointing it out to Sherlock.

"Yes, the shoe print suggests as much," Sherlock replied.

"Shoe print?" John questioned.

"Yes, under the scrub oak," Sherlock replied scanning the bloodstain and then leaping into the foliage on the left. Sure enough, when John lifted some of the torn plants he found a muddy footprint.

"It's a woman's size seven," Sherlock said as he trudged around on the other side.

"So a woman is killing all these people?" John asked.

"Possibly, it could have been the jogger's shoe but I doubt it. It's too pristine. If it were the jogger's it would be smeared as she would have been dragged off into the woods," Sherlock explained.

"Would a woman be able to drag another woman off into the woods?" John asked. "Stacie looked like she could have put up a good fight."

The jogger, Stacie, had been on her university's rugby team. She wasn't exactly a small girl.

"Possibly, but again unlikely," Sherlock replied. He growled and threw a stone to the ground. "None of the evidence adds up! This is increasingly more frustrating the longer this goes on."

"Maybe we're trying to connect too much," John suggested. "Maybe this isn't one killer. Maybe it's a cult."

"Already thought of that," Sherlock said. "No evidence,"

"Don't you have any theories?" John asked.

"One but I'm fairly certain I would be deemed completely mental for suggesting it," Sherlock replied tartly.

"Sherlock, you shot a guy in the head at point blank range," John said drily. "People already think you're mental."

Sherlock just shrugged and kept up his search. John watched him for a few minutes before he sighed. "Maybe-"

"There is no maybe John!" Sherlock shouted. "We have a crazed serial killer who seems to have moved from London to Bristol and who seemingly attacks random people at random so we have no way of tracking them down! I can't even tell if a person is doing the actual killing or if it's a dog because Molly can't seem to isolate a DNA strand!"

"Sherlock, I think we should head home. Let's call Molly on the way back and we'll reconvene at Baker Street and try from the beginning. We had to have missed something. It has happened before, you've said it yourself," John said calmly. Sherlock sighed in frustration but didn't argue. He climbed out of the bushes and back onto the trail. The sun was nearly set. John started down the trail, Sherlock trailing behind like an angry toddler.

The sun was completely down thirty minutes later and the moon was just climbing into the sky when Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. John paused when he heard Sherlock freeze. He turned around but knew better than to say anything. Years as a soldier had taught him to be silent whenever possible. Sherlock put a finger to his lips and pointed into the woods just ahead of them where the trail turned to the right and vanished. John turned to look where he was looking but he didn't see or hear so much as a rustle in the leaves.

Suddenly to his left he heard a low rumbling growl not too unlike an angry dog. He slowly reached behind him to where he had tucked his gun into his waistband. A twig snapped off to their left where the growling was coming from. Sherlock whipped his head in that direction just as a guttural growl much like a mountain lion broke the semi-silence and a wild-eyed woman leapt out of the woods at him. Sherlock stumbled backward and before the woman reached him, a bullet tore through her temple and she collapsed in a heap. Sherlock was leaning against a tree. He looked at John who held his gun, still smoking, pointed at the woman. Sherlock cleared his throat and stood straight trying to appear unaffected but failing.

"Well, my vote is on rabid pedestrian," John said with a weak laugh. "We should probably call the police."

"Yes, I suppose-" Sherlock stopped midsentence. He was inching his way around the body when she started to stir. "John, run!"

Sherlock leapt over her and the two sped off down the trail. Another guttural growl told them the woman wasn't too far behind them. It was only a matter of minutes before they burst out of the woods and into the now empty parking lot. John fumbled with the keys before Sherlock shouted. John whipped around as the woman burst through the trees. He quickly tossed the keys to Sherlock and pulled out his gun. The woman charged him. John stumbled back. Her eyes were a violent, bloodshot red and in her mouth was an alarming set of sharp pointed teeth. He shot at her again hitting her in the shoulder. She didn't even stutter.

"John get in!" Sherlock shouted. John rolled over the nose of the car and wrenched open the driver's side door. He slammed the door shut behind him and hit the gas, backing up at an alarming rate. The car hit the woman and rolled over her.

"No offense John but if shooting her has little to no effect on her I doubt that a vehicle will!" Sherlock shouted.

"I panicked, okay?" John spat back.

"Well panic some more and get us out of here!" Sherlock shouted as the woman stood up. She was an awful sight covered from head to toe in blood, her hair matted with blood, mud, and leaves. Her head had even concaved in the back and yet she was still standing. One of her wrists was dangling at a sickening angle clearly broken and yet she growled and charged them again slamming into the car and making it rock on two wheels for a moment.

"Right," John hit the gas and sped out of the parking lot and down the gravel road. The woman chased after them but was soon lost in the dust cloud left by the car. Sherlock glanced behind them. When he saw she was no longer behind them he faced front again and slumped in his seat.

"What the hell happened back there?" John shouted covering his fright with an angry burst. "That bullet I put in her forehead should have done the trick!"

"My guess is that the bullet didn't work because it wasn't made of silver," Sherlock replied more than a little out of breath. He was gripping the door handle and the armrest rather tightly. He didn't want his emotions showing though he thought John was a bit preoccupied at the moment.

"Because it wasn't…are you bloody insane?!" John shouted. "Why would it have to be silver?!"

"A silver bullet in the heart is the only way to kill a werewolf," Sherlock said as though it were the most obvious conclusion in the world.

"I _beg_ your pardon?" John said.

"I did warn you that my theory was a bit odd," Sherlock snapped. "You have to admit it fits with the evidence."

"Werewolves aren't real! Hollywood invented them for horror flicks!" John shouted hysterically.

"Then how do you explain the condition of that woman with her wild eyes and foaming mouth full of sharp canines? Or the fact that a bullet in her head only slowed her for a moment and how she was barely stunned by a car running over her? What about all the attacks from the case? Human saliva but tooth marks of a dog? Or the fact that they only occurred during the full moon?"

"You have completely lost it!" John shouted hitting the paved main road and tearing off toward London.

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth!" Sherlock argued.

"Werewolves are impossible!" John retorted. He growled in frustration. "If they turn out to be real I'll eat my dog."

"What dog?" Sherlock asked.

"My bulldog, Gladstone? I've had him for nearly a year," John said.

"Oh,"

John sighed. "You know for being so observant you can be utterly oblivious sometimes. So now what?"

"As much as it pains me, I need to call Mycroft. He may have contacts who can explain what we just saw," Sherlock sighed grudgingly pulling out his phone.

$ $# %$#^

Dean took a large bite out of his burger and munched happily. He and Sam had stopped at a diner on their way out of a small town in Iowa. They had just disposed of a troublesome poltergeist and Dean had insisted he was starving and needed to stop. Sam decided he wasn't going to argue because things had been tenuous with his brother and he didn't want to get in an argument.

So now Sam sat watching in disdain as his brother devoured a hamburger while mayo and ketchup seeped out of the sandwich and down the sides of his mouth. He scrunched his nose and shook his head in disgust.

"Watching you eat is so unappetizing," he commented looking out the window to avoid watching Dean.

"Ven doene wash," Dean said around a mouthful of beef. Sam sighed and shook his head. Then he stood up.

"I'm going to run to the restroom. Don't take off without me," he said.

"Doene fa lin," Dean said taking another bite of his meal. Sam shook his head again and headed for the back of the diner where a dirty sign said "RESTROOM" and pushed open the door for the men's one. The bathroom was dingy with very little light and in desperate need of a good wash. Sam ignored this and went to the rusty sink and turned on the faucet. He filled his hands with water and splashed his face. He was exhausted and he couldn't wait to fall into his bed. He glanced into the mirror and nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Dammit, Cas!" he shouted.

"I have some bad news," Castiel said ignoring Sam's irritation at his sudden appearance. Sam groaned.

"When are you ever going to show up with good news? Isn't that what angels should do?"

Castiel cocked his head in confusion. Sam just shook his head and waved his hand. "Never mind, what's the bad news?"

"A great evil has returned," Castiel said solemnly.

"Another one?" Sam asked in a bored tone.

"Unfortunately," Castiel replied. "Lucifer's right-hand man has come out to play again. No one has seen him in over a hundred years."

"And who is Lucifer's right-hand man?" Sam asked.

"Back in the day he was called Teival. These days I believe more know him as Legion."


	2. August 2015 continued

**A/N : Hope you enjoyed the first installment of this story! I've never written Supernatural or Sherlock before (honestly I didn't think I could do Sherlock justice). Anyway I own nothing, not Sherlock or Doctor Who or Supernatural. That honor goes to Moffat, Gatiss, and Kripke. Now on to the next chapter! Enjoy and as always reviews are the bomb!**

 **August 2015**

Mycroft's cell buzzed in his jacket pocket. He sighed in frustration as he set his pen down. He was far too busy for this and he had just hung up on his mother telling her he wouldn't visit her this weekend for exactly that reason. Honestly, that woman never gave up. He glanced at the screen and rolled his eyes. Even worse than Mummy.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" he asked sarcastically when he answered the phone.

"Believe me this brings me no pleasure," Sherlock responded disdainfully. "Unfortunately, I need your assistance."

"Aren't you out in Bristol?" Mycroft asked.

"Not anymore," Sherlock said. "We were attacked."

Mycroft sat up straight and his tone immediately changed. "Attacked by who?"

"A rather wild woman John is convinced had rabies but I believe she may have been bitten by something a bit more deadly," Sherlock replied. Mycroft stiffened.

"What do you mean?"

"I believe she was a werewolf," Sherlock replied. "And before you question my sanity let me lay it all out for you-"

"Did she have large, dilated pupils and a row of fangs?" Mycroft cut across his brother swiftly. There was a pause.

"You've seen this before then?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft sighed.

"I think you and I need to have a chat," he replied. "As soon as you are back in town come to the Diogenes Club. We have a lot to discuss."

He hung up and rubbed his face. He had hoped Sherlock would never find out. His father had explicitly told him not to allow his little brother to find out just how cruel this world really was. He thought for sure his men had caught and killed the culprit in this particular case. Apparently, one victim escaped and went to Bristol. This was going to be a long night.

**%^##^%^%*(^(&(*%$^#%

"You were in the bathroom for an awfully long time," Dean said as Sam hopped into the passenger seat of the Impala.

"Yeah, well I got waylaid by Cas," Sam replied. Dean raised his eyebrows.

"Why did he come to you?" he asked sounding a bit hurt. Sam shrugged.

"He said some evil called Legion has returned and is causing quite the strife across the planet."

"Legion? Like some hot shot Roman or something?" Dean asked starting the engine and backing out of the parking lot.

"Actually, I think he's a demon," Sam replied.

"Surprise, surprise," Dean said pulling onto the highway and heading for Kansas. "What makes him so special?"

"I have no idea but Castiel seemed scared," Sam said. "If it is the demon Legion from the bible then we may need a prophet to dispose of him."

"Fan-freaking-tastic," Dean huffed.

"We're going to have to do a lot of research once we get back to the bunker," Sam said. "I'm not taking any chances if an angel is freaking out."

Dean groaned. "I hate research,"

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're going to make me do most of it anyway."

"Damn right I am," Dean smirked turning on the radio. _Stairway to Heaven_ filtered in through the speakers. "Gotta love Led Zeppelin."

Sam just smiled and looked out the window as they sped down the highway.

^&^^#^% %^$%&*(^*^

"Be quick with this chat," Sherlock said plopping down in the seat across from Mycroft's desk. John cringed when Sherlock burst through the door without knocking. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Please close the door, John," Mycroft said. John obliged and then stood awkwardly by the desk.

"I can't guarantee this will be quick, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "You have barely scraped the surface of this new world you've run into."

Sherlock leaned back looking disinterested. Mycroft pursed his lips.

"The werewolf is being taken care of as we speak. I will give Detective Inspector Lestrade a reasonable explanation, probably rabies as John suggested, for the murders so that all the loved ones of the victims can be at peace. Now," Mycroft leaned back in his chair. "We need to discuss the fact that you came face to face with a monster that most people believe is fictional. I know you have doubts, John, and I promise to answer all your questions but first I must explain why I kept this from my brother."

Sherlock frowned. "You mean to tell me you've know of these things for quite some time?"

"Since I was a child, yes," Mycroft replied. Sherlock was unable to hide his surprise.

"When we were small, our father was not a traveling salesman as you were told. He was a Hunter, as was his father, and his father before him."

Sherlock was finding this hard to believe. His father couldn't even kill a mouse when it snuck into the shed. How could he possibly go out and kill werewolves and who knew what else?

"Father didn't want us raised into that life like he had so he kept silent about that part and mother was adamant it stayed that way. She was already unsure if her husband would return from a hunt, she didn't need to worry about her children too. Unfortunately, I was too curious for my own good and I stumbled upon Dad and Grandfather arguing about a poltergeist terrorizing a small town in Scotland. They knew they couldn't lie to me so they pulled me in. Mother was furious but knew there was nothing to do but tell me. Since then she became fiercely protective of you. That's why she bought you that damned dog, hoped he would distract you sufficiently."

Sherlock glared at the mention of Redbeard but said nothing. John was feeling incredibly uncomfortable. He was pretty sure they were both crazy but he felt he owed it to them to at least listen.

"I didn't hunt very often when we were young but once I went to university I found that it was a much needed job and I knew I could help a great deal if I had government resources at my fingertips. That's why I switched to political science as my major so quickly from physics. I have a whole crew of Hunters I pay to take care of all the things that go bump in the night.

"When you decided to be a chemist I thought I had lucked out. There was no way you would ever come nose to nose with a monster but then you went and got involved in drugs to try and stimulate your mind even though you were well aware of how dangerous those drugs were. While I am grateful that Greg chose to pull your interests away from drugs, I was frustrated that it had to be detective work. I was frustrated because I knew you would only take the weird cases and I knew that could be very dangerous. Thankfully, Sergeant Donovan works for me and was able to convince Greg that she could handle cases that involved monsters. Obviously Greg has no idea that's what she's doing. This in turn kept you clear."

"What changed this time? Is she losing her touch?" Sherlock smirked.

"The monster got lucky," Mycroft replied. "Sergeant Donovan killed the werewolf who killed all your victims but one escaped death. She didn't realize she had been turned because she was attacked on the last night of the full moon. Then she moved to Bristol. It's really a shame. She was due to be married in a week."

"What do you mean _was_?" John asked. Mycroft gave him a sympathetic look which confused John. He never showed sympathy.

"There's no cure for lycanthropy, surely even you know that?" Mycroft said. "We couldn't risk her hurting her fiancé or anyone else. Like I said, I've already sent a Hunter to take care of her."

"So now a human being is being hunted like a wild animal?" John asked coldly.

"The moment she was bitten she was no longer human," Mycroft said. "You saw Doctor Hooper's DNA tests. They weren't human."

John shook his head. "I think I'm going to head home. I've had enough of this. Maybe if I sleep on it I'll be able to come to terms with this. Good night."

He opened the door and slammed it behind him probably harder than was necessary but he was a bit irritated. Monsters indeed. Sherlock and Mycroft sat in silence for a moment after John left.

"If that is all perhaps I will follow John's lead. I too need time to mull this over," Sherlock said in much pleasanter tones than he usually used with his brother.

"Actually, perhaps it is time I spoke to you about the Moriarty video," Mycroft said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"I told you that we had it taken care of but I am not so certain we have," Mycroft continued. "We traced the video feed to a broken down shack outside Cardiff. The shack was covered in blood and there was a body we identified as one of Moriarty's network. One of my men took a picture of the walls. Does this mean anything to you?"

Mycroft ran his finger over the screen of his phone a few times and then handed it to Sherlock. The shack was indeed covered in blood. Above the body were three letters written in blood: _I O U._ Sherlock stiffened.

"I see, perhaps Moriarty isn't as dead as we believed," Mycroft said quietly.

"But that's impossible," Sherlock replied. "Moriarty shot himself in the head. There's no coming back from that."

As Sherlock said that an image of the woman John had shot earlier that evening played through his mind. John had shot her in the head and run over her with a car.

"He's not a werewolf, is he?" Sherlock asked dreading the answer.

"No, I don't believe so but the funny thing about the supernatural is that a lot of things don't die the way people do," Mycroft answered.

"So you're saying he could be anything?" Sherlock scowled.

"Oh no, I am fairly certain I know exactly what he is," Mycroft said. "And I wish he was just a werewolf."

"What do you think he is?" Sherlock asked cautiously.

"I believe he sold his soul to a demon," Mycroft replied.

)(^%*&^$#%$ $%#%^^

Dean groaned and flung the book he was staring blankly at onto the floor and flopped back in his chair. Sam jumped when the book hit the ground and he glared at his brother. They had been at this for hours and not a single book made any mention of Legion. They had pulled out an old bible and read his story but it really didn't tell them much.

"I'm gonna grab a sandwich, want anything?" Dean asked scraping the chair back, standing and stretching.

"No thanks," Sam said flipping the page in his book. Dean shrugged.

"Your loss," he said. Sam suddenly sat up staring at the book. Dean frowned. "What is it?"

"I think I found something," Sam said. "An old Roman legend involving two centurions."

"How is that something?" Dean asked.

"Just listen," Sam said. "There are many legends from the glory days of Rome but none are as romantic as the Legend of the Last Centurion. It is said that he was part of the Roman Legion that was lost in Scotland around 120 A.D. He turned up in Londonium in 121 A.D. a bit worse for wear and dragging a large stone box with him. He said he'd been tasked with protecting it, saying it was of the utmost importance but unwilling to say what was held within. He quickly rose in the ranks in Londonium and became Captain of the Guard. He also gained a rivalry with a renowned centurion by the name of Blantus. He was the hero of many battles that many believed would have been the end of Rome in Britain.

No one knows the reason behind the rivalry but one legend says that the Last Centurion was immortal and it peeved Blantus. Another says that Blantus was the demon Legion himself, determined to bring the immortal Last Centurion into his army of evil. Whatever the truth, Blantus fell out of the stories in time but the Last Centurion had endured clear until World War II where several people believe he finally perished in a fire brought on by a German bomb."

"Who's this Last Centurion?" Dean asked.

"I don't know," Sam said. "I know the London Museum of Natural History thought they had found the box that he'd been guarding and that they couldn't open it."

"How do you know that?" Dean asked.

"I watch the news," Same replied. "I'm more interested in this Blantus though. Why would the legends say he was Legion? It's one thing to say he was a demon and another to be specific."

"What's written in the margins there?" Dean asked pointing at some inked in handwriting by the short tale. Sam leaned in and read.

"It is said in one tale that Blantus was destroyed by a tall man in a suit with no name. He wasn't from Rome and after Blantus was destroyed, the man disappeared."

"A man in a suit?" Dean asked. "I know I failed history but I'm pretty sure suits weren't invented until the 20th century."

"They weren't," Sam said. "Maybe it was some punk giving them info for cash. Doesn't really seem to fit. I say we look into this Last Centurion story and see if Blantus shows up again."

"You do that, I'm going to make a sandwich," Dean said walking away to the kitchen.

"Jerk!" Sam shouted after him.

"Bitch!" Dean replied.


	3. April 2016

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed the second installment of this story! I've never written Supernatural or Sherlock before (honestly I didn't think I could do Sherlock justice). Anyway I own nothing, not Sherlock or Doctor Who or Supernatural. That honor goes to Moffat, Gatiss, and Kripke. Now on to the next chapter! Enjoy and as always reviews are the bomb! (Seriously, I got all these followers and favorites and not one of you has said what you like about it! I'm begging for some sort of feedback! The more feedback, the faster I pump out chapters!)**

 **April 2016**

Dean was furious. He gripped the steering wheel of his '67 Impala until his knuckles turned white. He didn't know where he was or where he was going and he didn't care. He was just going to drive until he couldn't anymore. That or he would drive until he found a burger joint because he really needed comfort food right now.

An hour ago he had been in the bunker with Sam and Cas relaxing after a run-in with a shape shifter. Dean was just saying that he despised shape shifters when Sam interrupted. That's when he slipped up. That's when Dean discovered Sam had been lying to him _again_. Apparently his brother had been having secret meetings with Castiel for over a year.

Not only did Sam not trust him but he had convinced Castiel too that Dean was dangerous. Yes, the Mark was taking its toll on him but that didn't mean he was dangerous. Okay, yes, he had beaten some people when he normally wouldn't and yes he may have thoughtlessly let some people get killed but everything worked out in the end. He was _not_ a threat.

He glanced out the window to his right and saw a small diner coming up. He felt his stomach growl. Just as he expected, his anger began to wilt at the thought of food. He slowed down and pulled into the empty parking lot. He took a moment to clear his head before he climbed out of the car and walked into the diner. To his surprise the diner wasn't as empty as the parking lot. Sitting at the counter on some spinning barstools was an older man and a girl probably only a few years younger than Sam. He couldn't help but wonder where their car was.

The diner was the stereotypical 50's retro diner. The booths along the walls, the tiny metal chairs and the stools along the counter all had plastic red seats while the chairs and booths themselves were white. The floor was a red and white checkerboard pattern with scrapes in them suggesting that the waitresses wore roller skates during the day. The walls were plastered with old photographs of Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis, and what might have been the diner in its prime. There were also old records and menus on the walls.

Dean took a seat a few down from the other two people and pulled a menu out of the metal holder by the ludicrous amount of different flavored syrups. While he read through it, the whispered argument from his neighbors drifted over to him. He didn't mean to eavesdrop but with no other sound other than the quiet jukebox in the far corner and the two arguing it was hard not to. It sounded like they may be lost though the man was in denial. Out of curiosity, Dean glanced at them.

The old man had neatly combed grey hair that curled over his forehead. He had extremely thick, grey eyebrows that gave him a perpetually grumpy look, a rather long, symmetrical nose, and soft, pale blue eyes. He was wearing a crisp, navy suit jacket, pleated navy suit pants, a navy suit vest and a white dress shirt. Dean thought he saw a flash of red on the inside of the jacket. He quickly glanced down at his shoes which were a sturdy black dress shoe. Again, Dean couldn't help but wonder where they had parked. This man far too nicely dressed to have walked 15 miles from the nearest town just to come to this crappy diner.

"What can I get for you, doll?" the waitress asked shaking Dean from his observations. He looked up at her. She was blonde but there were grey hairs scattered throughout her ponytail. She wore a stereotypical red and white checkered dress with a white apron, two ponytails held up by red scrunchies, and had a record shaped notepad that she took down orders in with a fluffy red pen. Dean would have bet his right leg that she was wearing skates.

"Just a burger with some fries, please," Dean replied. He set the menu back in place as the woman nodded and glided back into the back room. _Definitely on skates_ Dean thought triumphantly.

"I am not lost," the man said far louder than anything either had said up to this point. Dean had almost forgotten they were still here but at the man's outburst he blatantly looked back in their direction. The man had turned away from the girl in a huff, glaring at the counter. The girl had her back to Dean but he picked up a few things from his vantage point. She had short, dark brown hair and it was shiny and gorgeous from this angle. He bet if he touched it the locks would have been incredibly soft. She also had a very flattering figure, a little broad-shouldered but it wasn't unattractive. On the contrary it gave her back a very full look. She had a small waist and nicely shaped hips that curved in the most attractive way possible to a very well defined derriere. She was wearing a black polka-dotted sundress so her beautifully full legs were completely visible down to her red flats on her feet.

"Have you seen enough?" the man asked tartly. Dean jumped guiltily and looked up at the man. The girl turned around to see who her companion was talking to. Her eyebrows shot up as she took in Dean. Dean in turn couldn't help but stare at her soft-featured face. It was round and her short hair framed her face in the most flattering way. She had brown eyes with very expressive eyebrows. She had soft pink lips too.

The man cleared his throat causing Dean to start guiltily again. He looked very angry. _Must be her father_ Dean thought feeling more than a little intimidated.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to stare," Dean said politely. "You have a lovely daughter."

For some reason the girl found it funny and began to giggle behind her hand. Dean scrunched his face in confusion and the man scowled.

"She's not my daughter," he spat. "Now mind your own business."

The girl gave Dean an appraising look and a small smile before turning back to the man. Dean looked away. He pulled his phone out contemplating texting Sam but he was still too angry to talk to him. His mind began to wander as the other two began to argue again. The man was foreign, that much was for sure He had a brogue of some sort but he couldn't identify it as Irish or Scottish. He wondered if the girl was foreign too. Instinctively, he honed in on their conversation to find out.

"I told you I am not lost," the man spat, his brogue getting stronger. "I know exactly where I am."

"Oh yeah? And where is that, huh?" the girl asked in a sarcastic London accent. Foreign indeed.

"Darby's Diner," the man said triumphantly.

"Easy to get from the moment we walked in. I meant what _town_ ," the girl said wryly.

"Darby," the man said not sounding very confident.

"No such place," Dean interjected. The man glared but the girl turned around and smirked.

"Do tell," the girl said.

"You're like 50 miles east of Lawrence, Kansas," Dean said.

"Kansas," the girl said dryly. She sighed. "I told you we weren't on the east coast," she said spinning to face the angry man.

"Anyone could have made that mistake," he said grumpily. "No one asked the American for his input."

"You're welcome," Dean huffed turning away.

"Do you have to be so rude to everyone? You weren't always like this," the girl snapped.

"I am not rude," the man said indignantly.

"Here you go, doll," the waitress said returning with Dean's food. "Want anything to drink?"

"A beer if you have one," Dean replied taking a big bite out of his burger. The waitress nodded.

"Are you sure you two don't want anything?" she asked the other two.

"Actually-" the girl started.

"We're fine thanks," the man said. "A couple of glasses of water will be sufficient."

"Sure thing," the waitress said sounding more than a little annoyed. Dean caught the girl glaring at the older man.

"You should have asked for a map," she said.

"I don't need a map," the man insisted. Dean was starting to get annoyed by him. He swallowed and turned back to them.

"Look, maybe I can help," he said. "Where are you headed?"

"We are not lost," the man spat.

"Your…niece…disagrees," Dean said trying to pinpoint their relationship again. Dean winked at her simply to see what her reaction would be. She bit her lip to try and hide her amusement. No blush, not a shy girl then.

"We aren't related," the man spat. Dean raised an eyebrow. What kind of whacked out relationship did they have then? He hadn't stumbled upon some teacher running off with his student, had he? The girl seemed to read his expression and quickly cut in.

"We're just friends," she said. "We're actually looking for another friend of mine. She said she was in Maine. We're just not familiar with the States."

"Well, honey, you are a far cry from Maine," Dean said. "You need to head as far east as you can go before you hit Canada."

"Thanks, that was ever so helpful of you," the girl said glancing back at her friend with a smirk. She looked back at Dean. "I'm Clara Oswald by the way and this dunderhead here is the Doctor."

Clara held out her hand. Dean smiled and shook it. "Dean Winchester,"

Suddenly, the Doctor perked up. He didn't look remotely angry but very interested and, if Dean was not mistaken, a bit excited.

"Dean Winchester? The ghost hunting boy?" he asked in a completely different tone than he had previously been using with Dean. Dean narrowed his eyes.

"How do you know I hunt ghosts?" he asked. There was practically a sparkle in the Doctor's eyes now.

"We met a long time ago," he said. "You must have been eight years old or so. Your dad had gone into a warehouse to flush out a poltergeist and had left you and your brother outside. His name was Sam, wasn't it?"

Dean was still unconvinced. He remembered that night very differently. The man who had stumbled upon him and Sam had been shorter and much, much younger. Of course, this had been over twenty years ago but still, the face structure wasn't the same and he couldn't picture this grumpy, old man as someone who wore bowties and suspenders. The man he had met then was also most definitely English, not Scottish or Irish.

"I don't recall ever meeting you," Dean said carefully.

"Well, you didn't meet this me," the Doctor said. "You met a younger me. I was travelling with Amy and Rory at the time. You remember them, right?"

"Yes," Dean said slowly. "It's hard to forget someone who looks like Amy. You were decidedly not there. Not unless you are her boyfriend thirty years from then. You certainly don't look like the Doctor I knew."

"You know the Doctor?" Clara cut in suddenly. She turned to the Doctor. "Is there no place we can go where someone doesn't know you?"

The Doctor shrugged but Dean cut in.

"I don't know him," he said. "I do know someone who calls himself the Doctor but it's definitely not him."

"Did the Doctor you know wear a bowtie and braces? Perhaps his pants hung above his ankles?" Clara asked. Dean said nothing but the look on his face must have told Clara what she needed to know.

"This man here is the same one you met as a child just a bit older," Clara said. "I met him in his bowtie face too. He looked like a university professor."

"You really are the Doctor?" Dean asked still skeptical.

"Yes," the Doctor said.

"Now that that is settled," Clara interjected. "What did he mean by the 'ghost hunting boy'?"

Dean felt a blush creep up his neck as Clara giggled. For some reason this girl from Britain made him feel like his job was utterly ridiculous. His job saved lives so why was he suddenly feeling so self-conscious about it?

"I hunt ghosts," Dean said. "Well not just ghosts, monsters too though lately not even that."

"Monsters? What like aliens?" Clara asked.

"No like things that go bump in the night," Dean said cocking an eyebrow. "You know like vampires, werewolves, poltergeists, that sort of thing."

"I've fought vampires and werewolves before," the Doctor said. "Not fun,"

"No not really," Dean agreed.

"So how is the ghost hunting?" the Doctor asked with genuine interest.

"Like I said ghosts are the least of my problems right now," Dean said. His stomach growled reminding him he hadn't finished his burger so he took a large bite. Clara made a face of distaste.

"So what brings you to this tiny diner in Kansas?" the Doctor asked. "Last time I saw you was in Arizona."

Dean shrugged and swallowed his partially chewed food. "My brother and I have kind of made a home base a few miles from here. We…had an argument so I left to clear my head."

"Brothers are like that," the Doctor said. "My brother drove me up the wall as a kid."

"You have a brother?" Clara asked.

"Mmhmm, older unfortunately," the Doctor responded. Dean chuckled.

"I had you pegged as an only child," he said.

"If only," the Doctor said wryly. Dean chuckled again before taking another bite of his burger. He still wasn't entirely sure about these two but he just couldn't help but like them. Once the Doctor opened up he was really friendly. He still wasn't sure this man was the same Doctor he met as a kid but Clara seemed absolutely sure they were the same people.

"So how is Amy?" Dean asked. "And…Cory? No, uh, Rory! How are Amy and Rory?"

A dark look fell across the Doctor's face at the mention of their mutual friends. Clara placed a hand over his. Dean felt his stomach drop. Had something bad happened to the fiery redhead and her beau?

"They…I haven't seen them in many, many years," the Doctor said seeming to settle on an appropriate answer.

"They are okay, aren't they?" Dean asked carefully. The Doctor nodded.

"Oh I'm sure they are perfectly happy. Their daughter probably visits all the time and keeps them busy."

"They have a daughter?" Dean asked.

"Oh yes, that happened after we met you, didn't it?" the Doctor asked sounding on the brink of hysteria. "She's quite lovely. I rather enjoy her company. Not one to take orders, that one."

Dean felt as though he had just ripped off a scab. Something had happened to the couple and it hurt the Doctor immensely. Dean really wanted to know just what happened but he didn't want to pry too far. The Doctor was still too intimidating for Dean to feel comfortable probing. Suddenly the air was stifling. Clara smiled sadly at Dean.

"I never met them but they must have been close to the Doctor because he talks about them all the time," she said softly rubbing soft circles on the Doctor's hand. "More so now in his old age."

Clara smirked and the Doctor half-heartedly huffed. Dean felt as though the tension had snapped. It was much easier to breathe now.

"Is that why you talk with a brogue now?" Dean teased. "Trying to keep Amy around?"

"Perhaps," the Doctor said. "I didn't consciously pick a Scottish accent when I changed."

"What do you mean changed?" Dean asked suddenly feeling suspicious.

"That was fun," Clara said sounding very sarcastic. "Be glad you weren't there when he changed his face. There's nothing more disconcerting than having your younger-looking, bow-tied best friend become an old man shouting about kidneys in the blink of an eye, even if you are expecting it."

Dean felt his blood run cold even as Clara laughed. His face changed? His face physically changed from something young to something old? Dean knew of only two things that did that and neither were friendly. He didn't want to believe that this old man was a monster but now Dean could understand why it was so hard to trust him to begin with; deep down inside, Dean knew something wasn't right with this man. He hadn't felt that way with the bow-tied Doctor probably because he was the real Doctor and this imposter had stolen his face. Dean felt his blood go from cold with dread to boiling with anger. He stood up abruptly cutting off Clara's laugh. He didn't look at them, just stared straight ahead.

"Dean?" Clara asked uncertainly.

"So, who's face did you steal, _Doctor_?" Dean asked coldly.

"I beg your pardon?" the Doctor asked as Clara snorted.

"You heard me," Dean spat still not looking at them. His fists clenched.

"I don't steal faces," the Doctor replied angrily.

"So, you're telling me you've never seen that face you are wearing before?" Dean asked.

"That's coincidence," the Doctor spluttered. "Usually the face is brand-new, never been used before."

That was all Dean needed to hear. He whipped his hand behind him and pulled his gun out of the waistband of his jeans, cocking it before pointing it at the Doctor's face. Clara screamed and both she and the Doctor leapt to their feet. The Doctor sighed, rolled his eyes, and folded his arms.

"What is it with Americans and guns?" the Doctor inquired angrily. Just then the waitress came back with the drinks. When she saw the gun she screamed, dropping the two waters and the beer. Dean pulled an I.D. out of his inner jacket pocket and flashed it at the waitress, eyes still trained on the Doctor.

"FBI," he said flipping it shut and putting it away. "I suggest you wait in the kitchen."

The waitress didn't need to be told twice. She bolted for the kitchen, stumbling once as her skates got caught on the broken glass on the floor.

"Dean, I am not the enemy here," the Doctor said.

"I really doubt that," Dean said. "Were you going to steal Clara's face next? Has he touched your skin, Clara?"

"Has he touched my-of course he has! We're friends! You don't ever not touch your friends!" Clara said rather hysterically. "What does that have to do with anything?" Somehow the Doctor had managed to slide in front of Clara to shield her from the gun so Dean could barely hear her.

"Because that's how shape shifters change their face; by touch," Dean answered.

"You think I'm a shape shifter?" the Doctor asked, His eyebrows had risen so high they were nearly popping off his forehead. Then he started laughing.

"I'm not shape shifter," the Doctor chortled. "Yes, I can change my face but at a great cost. I can only do it a set number of times and only when I'm dying. I didn't change my face for fun. I'm fairly certain the only reason this face is familiar is because I ran into myself on one of my travels."

"You can't run into yourself," Dean snapped.

"You can if you're a time traveler," the Doctor said calmly. There was a deafening pause. Dean didn't know what to say. He wanted to say time travel wasn't real but he had done it himself several times so that was out. Of course he did usually associate time travel with…

"Okay, so you can change your face but you say you aren't a shape shifter and you time travel. Are you telepathic too?" Dean asked trying another approach.

"Actually yes. Why?" the Doctor asked suspiciously. Dean had yet to lower his gun and the Doctor was still eying it pensively.

"Have you ever had to smite a demon?" Dean asked.

"If smiting a demon includes throwing a false devil into a black hole, sure," the Doctor said clearly not following Dean's train of thought.

"Are you an angel?"

Clara burst out laughing before the Doctor could reply. He scowled, turning around to look at her. Clara doubled over gasping for breath. Dean lowered his gun just a hair looking confused.

"Sorry…but if he's an angel, I must be a goddess," Clara gasped tears of mirth in her eyes. The Doctor rolled his eyes in irritation and turned back to Dean.

"No, I am not an angel either. I'm a Time Lord. Yes, my face changes but each and every one of them is my face and my face alone. I've fought face stealers before. I would never do that to another living thing."

Dean had no idea what a Time Lord was and he had no idea if they were safe or dangerous or even real. If he wasn't so mad at Sam and Cas he would ask them. Of course, if he wasn't mad at them he wouldn't be here right now wondering if Time Lords were real. Suddenly, _Kashmir_ went off in his pants pocket. The Doctor and Clara exchanged a glance before looking back at Dean who rolled his eyes. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, looked at the screen and sighed. Without lowering the gun, he answered it.

"I'm still mad at you," he said as way of greeting.

"Yeah I figured but I thought you'd want to know I found a lead on Legion," Sam replied nonplussed.

"Yeah, what kind of lead?" Dean asked. His full attention was on his brother now. They'd spent a year trying to find this guy without a single lead.

"A phone call," Sam replied. "A woman named Sally Rodchester. Said she had some information but didn't want to email it in case it got intercepted. She said she'd meet us in Maine."

"Do you trust her?" Dean asked. He had lowered the gun just a little bit as his brother spoke.

"No but we haven't had anything in over a year. It's better than nothing," Sam said. "Maybe we'll get lucky and she's genuine."

"Did she say where in Maine?" Dean asked.

"She said she'd text me when she knew. She's not familiar with Stateside," Sam said. "She sounded English."

Dean sighed.

"On the upside, I think I know where she might be headed," Sam continued.

"Where?" Dean asked interest peaked.

"Perry, Maine, it's right on the coast and there was just a recent slaughter in one of the local bars. According to the police report, a young woman either in her late twenties or early thirties with red-brown hair and an English accent came into the bar around 11:30 on Tuesday night where she flirted with a few men while simultaneously locking everyone in. Then she proceeded to murder them all with medical tools. Everyone had clean cuts that bled heavily. Not one cut was crooked either. This was done by a professional."

"Do you think she's a demon?" Dean asked.

"She locked all four exits at the same time," Sam said. "And the video feed shows a woman of that description with solid black eyes holding a scalpel."

"Son of a bitch," Dean groaned.


	4. August 2015 (again)

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed the third installment of this story! I've never written Supernatural or Sherlock before (honestly I didn't think I could do Sherlock justice). Anyway I own nothing, not Sherlock or Doctor Who or Supernatural. That honor goes to Moffat, Gatiss, and Kripke. Now on to the next chapter! Enjoy and as always reviews are the bomb! Thanks to superwhofilesjackson, MaddyR, and rebaobssessions for reviewing. You guys are lovely!**

 **August 2015**

"Sold his soul?" Sherlock repeated. "To the devil, you mean?"

"Not exactly," Mycroft said. "I've never heard of anyone selling their soul directly to the devil. No, most contracts don't involve him at all. The deal is struck with a crossroads demon."

"Like in Brazilian mythologies about making deals with spirits at crossroads?" Sherlock inquired.

"Very similar," Mycroft replied.

"What makes you believe Moriarty sold his soul to a crossroads demon?" Sherlock asked.

"After your apparent suicide we went to fetch his body only it wasn't there," Mycroft said.

"And you don't believe his people just carried him off?" Sherlock asked. As often as he told his brother he was mad, Sherlock had never really believed he was. Now he was starting to feel genuine concern for his brother's mental health. He had been so sure that Mycroft would have laughed at his suggestion of a werewolf, had been hoping if he was honest with himself, yet Mycroft had done nothing of the sort. He was confirming everything and Sherlock could feel himself going into overload, unsure of how to handle all this new information. He was especially worried about whether he could believe this was real.

"I know this is a lot to take in, Sherlock," Mycroft said kindly breaking Sherlock from his thoughts. "Take your time with this. I wish there was a better way to explain this all to you but-"

Mycroft was cut off as John slammed the office door open, his face pale, mobile phone clutched in his hand. His face wore an expression of worry and perhaps some sort of deep-seeded dread. Sherlock stood as he realized John was shaking with fear. He hurried over to his friend.

"What happened, John?" Sherlock asked. The only reason John would look like he did now was if something had happened to Mary…or worse, Elizabeth. He dearly hope he was wrong just this once.

"Greg just called," John said in an unsteady voice. Sherlock felt his gut twist. If Lestrade called it meant Mary couldn't. That wasn't good. "He said Mary called 999 about twenty minutes ago." Sherlock felt himself ease up. Mary called the police that was a good sign. "Greg said she's been attacked."

"Attacked?" Mycroft asked. "By whom?"

John swallowed glancing nervously at Sherlock. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"She knew her attacker, didn't she?" Sherlock asked. John nodded still unwilling to say who it was.

"Someone she considered a friend," Mycroft stated with a heavy sigh. John nodded again.

"Who John?" Sherlock demanded. A list was running through his head but not one of them seemed likely.

"She…she said it was Molly," John replied.

^%# ^%$**

Chuck sat bolt upright in bed. He was drenched in a cold sweat and shaking uncontrollably. He blinked his eyes a few times to adjust them to the darkness and ran his fingers through his hair as he tried to bring his breathing under control. He tossed the comforter and under sheet off of himself and crawled out of bed. He walked up to his bedroom window and leaned heavily on the sill looking outside. He could see a faint line of light on the eastern horizon; early morning then. He glanced at his digital alarm clock on his bedside table. Six thirty shown in bright green. He sighed and ran a hand over his face. No use in trying to go back to sleep now.

He walked over to his closet door and pulled his dull gray-blue robe off the hook and put it on. Then he puttered out to the kitchen, his heartbeat still racing as though he'd just run a marathon. He flipped the light switch on as he stepped barefoot on to the cold tiled floor. He blinked again to readjust his eyes then went straight for the coffeepot. Once he had his coffee he sat at his tiny kitchen table and took a sip. He was still shaking despite the warm, humid air of his house.

It had been a long time since he had had a vision. He had been hoping the angels had forgotten about him. He felt like he should have known better; once a prophet, always a prophet. That's why he had gone into hiding in the first place. He feared Crowley would do something horrible to him or so his visions suggested anyway. Of course, he hadn't had a vision of Crowley in so long he was starting to wonder if the Winchesters had finally done him in. He wouldn't put it past them.

More to the point, he hadn't had a vision in over two years. The last one had been about some crazy angel called Metatron tossing his family to Earth. Every last one becoming a fallen angel. He couldn't begin to understand why an angel would toss all the others out; it had to be lonely in Heaven all by yourself. Chuck had thought about looking into it but he was really fed up with angels and figured it was probably better this way. No one left in Heaven to bully him. Metatron didn't seem to have any use for prophets and that was perfectly fine with Chuck.

In fact, when the visions stopped, Chuck felt more free than he ever had before. It was like a cloud that had been sitting over his head since his storybook characters had coming knocking on his door had finally blown away. He could breathe again. Of course, that didn't last as long as he had hoped. After a while, he realized people were following him. At first he thought he was just being paranoid but one scary looking man had moved in just the right way and Chuck had seen the flash of a silver sword. The angels may have fallen but they still knew Chuck was out there and were bent on doing who knew what with him. So Chuck had run.

He had changed his identity no less than thirty times before he finally settled with Eric Kripke, a journalist for the Kansas City Star. Mostly he just printed the comics and police reports but every now and then he was tasked with a small article. Eric Kripke was a widower and a recluse. He hated attention and people and hardly ever left his house for anything but work. He liked rugby and horrible reality TV shows. Not that anyone knew any of this but Chuck felt it was necessary to be thorough in case anyone did ask.

Kansas City wasn't a horrible place to settle down. It wasn't ideal but it was working well for now. It was just big enough for one to blend in and be a nobody but small enough that he wasn't overwhelmed by people. He felt relatively safe here. Perhaps it was how all the trees leafed out in April and drowned out the city. There was something calming about being able to look out the window and pretending you were out in the woods all by yourself but knowing that on the other side of those trees was the local Hy-Vee and Conoco.

Chuck sighed and dropped his forehead to the tabletop. He shouldn't be so surprised by this vision. Lately, he'd been having really shotty visions; at least he thought they were visions. If not, his brain was an asshole. He honestly didn't know if he was seeing the future anymore or something his mind had come up with all on its own. He had taken to writing them all down and skimming news stories to see if they were coming true. So far, nothing.

He groaned. "Why me?" he muttered.

##^%$&%**&

When Sherlock and John arrived at the Watson's townhome in one of Mycroft's unmarked black cars the police were already there. Sergeant Sally Donovan came to meet them as they climbed out. John rushed up to her. Before he could ask, Sally answered.

"Mary's inside with Greg in the sitting room. She's just finishing up her statement. Your daughter's asleep in her bed with your dog."

"Thank you,'' John said breathlessly rushing past her and into the open front door. Sherlock looked around the yard. Police with torches and their dogs were searching the grounds. Some were going in and out the front door. Donovan started to turn away but Sherlock grabbed her arm and stopped her.

"Where is Doctor Hooper?" he asked more brusquely than he had intended to. Sally had glowered at him when he had grabbed her but now her face softened to something akin to sympathy, something Sherlock was unaccustomed to seeing on her face.

"She was long gone before we arrived. She didn't leave much of a trail behind either," Donovan said as kindly as she could muster. "Just a broken window."

"Has anyone checked her home yet?" Sherlock asked still trying to process what emotion Donovan was showing him.

"No, I was just about to head over myself when you arrived," Donovan said.

"There's no need," Sherlock said. "I'll go myself once I've spoken with Mary."

Sherlock was surprised when Donovan didn't argue. She simply nodded and went to join the other officers as they searched for some trace of Molly. Before she'd made it too far Sherlock called out after her.

"Donovan?"

"Yes?" she asked turning around.

"Thank you," he said simply. Donovan looked surprised.

"You're welcome," she said. Sherlock gave her the barest minimum of a half-smile before going inside. There were a few officers inside the town home but it looked like most of them were packing up gear and heading outside. The hallway looked untouched. No signs that a guest had been here. Sherlock walked to the first doorway on the left in the hallway. This led to the sitting room. It was a disaster. There were papers everywhere and the bookshelf had fallen forward scattering books across the floor. Like Donovan had said, the big window on the far side of the room was completely shattered. Sherlock thought he even caught sight of some blood stains on a few books.

Mary and John were sitting on the couch. John had his left arm around Mary's shoulder and his right hand was clutching hers, rubbing soft circles over her knuckles. Mary was a mess. She was shaking with suppressed sobs as though she didn't think she needed to cry but absolutely wanted to. Her head was bandaged on the right temple; when she turned to look at Sherlock he could see the blood soaking into it. He felt incredibly squeamish all of a sudden. He had no idea why but seeing Mary hurt made him feel uncomfortable. The blood wasn't the only thing red on her face. Mary's eyes were red as though she had cried earlier. Sherlock saw definite tear stain tracks on her cheeks. Sherlock's stomach twisted as he studied her left cheek. There was a handprint on it, the exact size and shape of Molly's delicate hands.

Sherlock didn't know what to think. Why would Molly, sweet, kind, thoughtful Molly attack Mary? What could she possibly have against Mary when they barely knew each other? Was she angry with John? Sherlock doubted it and even she was, Molly was a very direct person; she'd tell John. Molly wasn't violent. He hoped Mary was mistaken about her attacker yet he knew that was a long shot. Mary was trained as a spy, she wouldn't be mistaken in identifying anyone.

Lestrade was sitting on the armchair across from John and Mary. He looked up from his notepad when Sherlock walked in. He didn't have a whole lot written down, Sherlock noticed, Why should he? He probably thought this whole thing was impossible too. Sherlock ignored him and walked over Mary, kneeling down in front of her. He slipped her hands out from under John's making her look at him. Mary's eyes glistened with unshed tears.

"I know this is going to be hard but I need you to tell me absolutely everything you remember in as exact in detail as you can be. Can you do that, Mary?" Sherlock asked. He knew she could because spies were trained in memory techniques similar to his. Mary sniffled and nodded. Sherlock had never heard her sniffle before not even when she and John were temporarily separated as he tried to come to terms with his wife's past.

"I put Lizzy to bed at eight thirty. I read her Little Red Riding Hood and then tucked her in and turned on her night light. Gladstone started barking so I went downstairs to quiet him so he wouldn't wake her but he went silent before I'd even made downstairs. He was sitting by kitchen whimpering and cowering. I thought it was odd but I didn't really think about it. I shrugged and went into the sitting room. I nearly had a heart attack because Molly was in there sitting on the loveseat reading one of our medical journals John and I keep on the coffee table."

"She just let herself in?" John asked. "That's not like her."

Mary took a deep breath. "Exact wording, I suppose?" she asked looking at Sherlock.

"As best as you can," Sherlock replied. She nodded.

"Well, when I saw her I said 'Oh, hello, Molly. I wasn't expecting you.' I kind of laughed and sat down on the sofa. She closed the journal saying 'No, I imagine not.' She had a strange look on her face so I asked her if anything was wrong and she threw the journal on the table and reclined back. She grinned kind of strangely and said um…oh uh 'Now that you mention it, no, not really' and I think she continued saying something about being underappreciated. Then I asked her if you had anything to with it."

Sherlock felt himself flinch against his own will. He wasn't surprised Mary would say something like that. He had a knack for making Molly feel worthless. He really needed to work on that. He nodded for Mary to continue.

"Anyway, when I asked this, she laughed and said 'that idiot? He doesn't appreciate anything.'"

That stung Sherlock a bit. He wasn't completely heartless and Molly knew that. Why would she say such a thing to Mary? What was her end game?

"She continued saying it was her boss making her feel underappreciated. Said he had forgotten her and that she was working her ass off to do everything just the way he liked."

"She's mad at Mike Stamford?" John asked bewildered. "But he's never asked her to do more than she was willing. He never calls her in for extra hours and he's never pushed her to do anything she didn't want to. He doesn't even complain when Sherlock makes her do things for him."

Sherlock thought back. John was right. Molly's job was never made stressful by her boss. Something was not adding up but Sherlock was at a loss as to what it could be.

"She didn't elaborate. At least, it seemed like she changed topics before I could really process what she had said," Mary continued sniffling a bit but seeming to have gotten herself under control. "She stood up, turned away from me and said something like 'the king is dead but the queen has yet to make a move. Here's her move.'"

Mary suddenly choked back a sob and couldn't continue. John squeezed her shoulders tighter and glanced at Sherlock briefly. Greg, who had been writing notes in his notebook, stopped and cleared his throat.

"This is as far as we got before you two arrived. Whatever happened from this point on must have been very traumatic."

Sherlock tried hard not to roll his eyes. He knew Lestrade was only trying to help but Sherlock was so far ahead of him it was painful. Instead of commenting on this he gripped Mary's hands tighter.

"Mary, it is imperative you tell me what she said next," Sherlock said gently. "What was the Queen's move?"

Mary took a few gasping breaths and then looked Sherlock in the eyes.

"I don't know if you'll believe me," she whispered. Sherlock pursed his lips.

"Right now, I'm wont to believe anything. Just tell me, don't worry about how ridiculous it might sound."

Mary nodded and hiccupped. "She didn't say anything. She simply turned back to face me and…"

Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes again. He knew she was trying, he just wished she would try a little faster. The longer it took her to tell him everything, the more time Molly had to flee and Sherlock needed to find her. He needed to know what made her snap.

"Go on," he urged gently.

"She had this horrible smirk on her face and her eyes…her eyes were solid black," Mary finally choked out. "I almost screamed but I figured that wouldn't help the situation. So I just stood up quickly. She laughed and said 'Now it's Sir-Boast-a-Lot's turn.' I had no idea what she meant by that and I said as much while I backed up slowly to the end table where'd I'd left my mobile. She laughed again and said it was an inside joke but that you would completely understand."

Sherlock had stiffened when Mary had mentioned Sir Boast-a-Lot. He knew Mary had noticed and was grateful she hadn't mentioned so. Molly shouldn't know about Sir Boast-a-Lot and it worried him that somehow she did. Sherlock hadn't even told John about his run-in with Moriarty in the cab. He had yet to explain the Fall to anyone in full detail. Molly had more information than most but he certainly hadn't mentioned the cab incident.

"Once I reached my mobile I dialed 999 and hoped they could hear everything," Mary said. "I wasn't sure what Molly was capable of at the moment. I just knew I was scared, which is no mean feat, and that my daughter was upstairs and possibly in as much danger as me. She started walking slowly toward me saying something about how hard it was to pick who was most important to you."

Mary shuddered as she took a deep breath. John looked grim.

"I don't understand, Molly knows that your closest relationship is with me," John said. "She calls it a bromance, whatever the hell that means."

"She said as much," Mary said. "She also said it was hard to get to you because you two are attached at the hip. She mentioned your parents but she said she didn't want Mycroft involved, at least not right away."

Sherlock clenched his jaw. He had never once thought his parents could be threatened. He never spoke about them. No one had met them until they showed up to scold him about his return from the dead without coming to see them first. John just happened to be a good excuse to get them out of his flat. Mary had only met them because Sherlock had hoped that John would forgive her if he got a glimpse at a happy marriage for all his parents' faults. Other than the Watson's, no one knew just how much he cared for his parents because he was trying to keep them safe. Mycroft was the same way. He was glad that they were ignored but he was still uncomfortable that they had been brought up at all.

Sherlock furrowed his brow then. So if the target wasn't John and it wasn't his parents, and all she did was rattle Mary, then who was Molly's target?

"Anyway, she said something like Mrs. Hudson and Greg had already been targeted once and it would be terribly boring to do so again so she'll have to do."

"Who'll have to do?" Greg interrupted.

"I haven't the faintest idea," Mary said. "That's when the police sirens could be heard. Molly looked out the window and then glanced behind me and smirked again. She said 'Looks like you got one up on me, minx.' Then she…" she paused to take a deep breath before plunging on. "She said she had to make it look good for you. Then she slapped me so hard I flew into the bookcase. I hid my head pretty hard and I was very disoriented but I'm pretty sure she laughed and then jumped out the window."

Mary burst into tears again and Sherlock released her hands to allow John to comfort her. He stood and walked over to the bookcase. It certainly looked as though Mary had become violently friendly with it. There were bloodstains on several books just as he had thought and the carpet where Mary hit her head. Some of the shelves were cracked as though something was thrown at them with great force, presumably Mary.

"I don't understand," Greg said standing up and joining Sherlock. "Molly doesn't have the size or strength to send Mary flying across the room even she threw her with all her might. How could she have slapped her across the room?"

"Well she found her strength because I didn't throw myself into the bookcase," Mary snapped angrily. Greg shrank back.

"It is a question that needs to be answered, sweetheart," John whispered. "Any ideas, Sherlock?"

"I don't know," Sherlock murmured going over to the shattered front window. The glass was broken into extraordinarily small pieces and several shards were still in the window frame. Sherlock knelt close to the sill. There was a yellow powder sitting in the glass fragments. He took a pinch between his index finger and thumb and smelled it. He made of face of disgust.

"What is it, Sherlock?" Greg asked.

"Sulfur," Sherlock said.

"Why is there sulfur in the window?" Greg asked checking himself and looking as though he regretted it.

"I don't know but I intend to find out," Sherlock said dropping the powder back on the sill. "I'm going to go to Molly's flat. Perhaps there is something there that'll clear this whole mess up."

"I'll go with you. We can take my car," Greg said sticking his notepad and pen in his inner jacket pocket. "Will you two be okay on your own?"

"We'll be fine," John said. "Find Molly."

The ride over to Molly's flat was a silent one. Sherlock was still trying to process it all. Mary, strong, confident, spy-trained Mary was afraid of Molly. _Molly_. Sherlock hadn't seen Mary cry since John forgave her. Yet she had sobbed in terror over Molly. _Molly_. And to top it all off, werewolves might actually be real. What was going on? Were the two connected? Sherlock shook that off. Molly connected to werewolves now that was absurd. Molly was…Sherlock didn't know. Had he finally driven her over the edge? He thought their relationship was getting better. He insulted her less and she slapped him less, that was progress wasn't it? Was it not progressing fast enough? He was sure they were friends, hadn't she said so herself? He mentally shook himself. Emotions were far too difficult to analyze, especially in a stressful situation like this.

On the other hand…Sherlock recalled the conversation he was having with his brother before John interrupted. Could Moriarty have something to do with this? Sherlock felt what could only be dread building in the pit of his stomach. Sherlock would never admit this to anyone (except Molly who already knew) but he was terrified of Moriarty. If he _had_ made a deal with a demon to live for who knows how long, then he could… _would_ have found out about Molly's part in keeping Sherlock alive and would want to take care of her. But how? How had he gotten Molly to do all these awful things? Or was it completely unconnected and Sherlock was simply looking for someone to place the blame on, even if they were more than likely dead?

There was still the matter of Molly's eyes…Sherlock had never said a bad thing about her eyes. She had some of the most stunning eyes of anyone he knew. She thought they boring because they were brown but Sherlock knew otherwise. Yes, brown was the most common eye color but Molly's were always bright. They were light brown, kind of like freshly polished wood and they were always very expressive. That's how Sherlock got away with so much with her. He could read her eyes better than anything. People thought he was oblivious to her attraction to him but he was far from unaware. He saw the way her eyes roved up his body as he deduced one of her bodies in the morgue. He saw the way she checked him out from the corner of her eyes as they worked in the lab. He especially noticed how her eyes seemed to see straight through him when he was doing his damnedest to hide what he was feeling.

So when Mary said her eyes were solid black, Sherlock was stunned. Trying to imagine Molly with essentially nothing but pupils was near impossible. No wonder Mary was afraid. Not having an iris would be creepy as hell. The question was how did Molly's eyes get that way? After all, Sherlock was positive Mary wouldn't lie about this, which means Molly really had black eyes and a terrible attitude…for whatever reason.

"We're here, Sherlock," Greg said loudly. Sherlock shook his head and climbed out of the passenger seat. The two walked up to Molly's second floor apartment in silence. When they got to the door Sherlock knocked. Nothing, not a peep. Sherlock dug in his pocket.

"We're not going to break in," Greg said firmly. Sherlock gave him a funny look.

"Of course not, I have a key," he said pulling it out and sticking it in the lock.

"Does Molly know you have a key to her flat?" Greg asked his eyes shooting upward.

"Of course, she gave it to me," Sherlock scoffed.

"Why do you have a key to Molly's flat?" Greg asked.

"Apparently it was irritating when I broke into her flat," Sherlock said opening the door. "Said if I was so hell bent on using her place as a refuge I might as well have a key so that one her neighbors didn't call the police on a break in."

Greg rolled his eyes but said nothing. Sherlock pulled a torch out of his coat pocket. He turned it on and looked around the room. Not a single thing seemed out of place. All of Molly's pictures hung meticulously on the wall, her favorite book was still on the coffee table, all her shoes on the shoetree by the door. Sherlock knelt down. At his feet was a pile of sulfur.

"I don't think Molly's been here since this morning," Sherlock said turning off the flashlight and flipping the light switch on for the living room. The two split up and searched her tiny flat for anything useful. Other than the sulfur there was no evidence she had been there since the night before.

"Sherlock," Greg gagged from the kitchen. Sherlock dropped Molly's shower towel he'd been examining and left the bathroom. When he entered the kitchen it was to a pretty grisly sight. Molly's cat, Toby, was on the floor completely skinned, flies buzzing him. Sherlock knelt next to the cat and took some measurements.

"I'd say his been dead for nearly twelve hours," Sherlock murmured. "Why would you kill Toby?" he whispered.

"I hate to say it but that's one of the first signs of-" Greg started.

"Molly isn't a psychopath, Lestrade," Sherlock nearly growled. "Something else is at play right now and we're wasting our time here. She should have worked today. Perhaps Mike can offer us some clues. Now find me a box."

Sherlock pulled some gloves out of his pocket. Greg sighed and did as he was told. He came back a few seconds later with a large shoe box. Sherlock gingerly lifted the cat into the box, skin included, and place the lid on top. He found some packaging tape Molly kept in her computer desk and taped the box shut. Then he stuck the box in the freezer.

"What are you doing?" Greg asked.

"Can't have the body rotting in her kitchen, now can we?" Sherlock said. "We can give the poor creature a proper burial once we've located Molly."

He started to leave but stopped. "Perhaps we should clean up the blood."

#%#^**&

The trip to St. Bart's was just as quiet. Sherlock was still deep in thought and Greg knew better than to interrupt. After Sherlock's rather sweet offer to preserve Molly's beloved cat, Greg was starting to wonder if there wasn't something more behind Sherlock's actions.

Sherlock led the way through the quiet halls of the hospital down to the morgue. Mike Stamford was there working on an autopsy. He looked up when the two men entered. He set his tools down.

"I hope you've come to tell me what has become of my pathologist," Mike said.

"Actually, we were hoping you could tell us what she's so riled up about," Greg replied. Mike furrowed his brow.

"Riled up? You've seen her then?" he asked.

"No," Sherlock replied. "Did something happen when you came into relieve her this evening?"

"Yes, I came in to find the morgue completely untouched since last night," Mike said crossly. "I had assumed Mr. Holmes here had borrowed her for something."

"I have been out of town until about two hours ago," Sherlock said. So Molly hadn't shown up for work. How very unlike her not to call in. Of course, that just added to the growing list of things not like Molly that Molly had done that day.

"Molly didn't come in for work?" Greg asked in surprise.

"Oh no, she showed up, she signed in but didn't start on either autopsy she was supposed to do today," Mike said. "Her lab coat was lying on the countertop over there."

He nodded to the other side of the room. Indeed, Molly's lab coat was still sitting on the countertop. Sherlock walked over and examined it. Sulfur residue was on the edges of the sleeves.

"Can I see the security footage?" Sherlock asked standing abruptly.

"By all means, it's in my office," Mike said going back to his autopsy. "Let me know what you find."

Sherlock left the lab without replying, Greg on his heels. Mike's office was three doors down from the morgue on the left side of the hall. Sherlock slipped in and sat down on Mike's office chair smoothly. He quickly opened the security feed and found the footage from eight that morning when Molly's shift started. Greg leaned over Sherlock's shoulder. The feed was gritty but good enough.

Molly entered the room with her lab coat on, wearing her favorite floral print t-shirt and jeans, a clipboard in her hand. She signed the log form by the door and then walked over to the body boxes at the back of the room still looking at the clipboard. Something off screen caused Molly to jump and drop the clipboard. A tentative smile broke across her face and she laughed nervously. Suddenly another woman appeared on the feed from the direction of the door. Sherlock recognized her immediately. Janine Hawkins walked in with a cheerful smile on her face. She picked up the clipboard Molly dropped and set it on the table. The two spoke for a moment. There was no sound so there was no way to really tell what the women were chatting about. Suddenly, Sherlock saw Molly tense and take a step back. Janine' posture had changed. Her back was to the screen but the fear was evident on Molly's face. Janine had taken on a rather predatory stance. Molly seemed to be trying to carefully back up to her tools, probably the scalpel as it would be of use if Janine attacked, but before she made it far Janine dissolved into a black cloud of smoke before shooting into Molly's mouth. The force of the charge knocked Molly to her knees. When the smoke cleared, Molly lifted her head and looked right at the camera, smiling. Her eyes were solid black. The video glitched and she was gone.

 **A/N: Oh dear, what have I done?** **Don't hate me it needed to happen.**


	5. Rome, 306 AD

**A/N: I don't own Supernatural, Doctor Who or Sherlock nor would I want to. That's way too much pressure on my shoulders. However, this is one of my favorite chapters so I hope you all enjoy it! As always, reviews get me motivated so the chapters come out faster.**

Rome, 306 AD

Rose Tyler stepped out of the TARDIS and into a busy street. She gazed around in awe as she watched shoppers in tunics and togas rush past her, most of them ignoring the newcomer. Rose giggled excitedly. She'd always loved Rome and she'd been dying to try on the pink Roman dress she'd found at the most two weeks ago (time was so hard when traveling in the Vortex).

The Doctor poked his head out and grinned. He stepped out of the doorway with his hands in his pockets and joined Rose out in the street. He licked his finger and stuck it in the air.

"Huh, 306 AD. I was aiming for 73 AD," he said.

"I don't care," Rose said happily. "It's still the Roman Empire."

"True, though it is very near its end. Too many borders to protect and not enough resources. They've already pulled out of Britain twice, pulled out of Spain, though they are loath to give up France-"

"Doctor," Rose cut across him. He glanced at her. "Stop babbling and let's go exploring."

The Doctor chuckled as she started off down the street. He quickly closed the TARDIS door and locked it before following her. The streets were simply full to bursting. It was clearly a market day and not only Romans were present. The Doctor whispered to Rose where people were from as they passed them. There was a group of Galatians (Gaulois who settled in Turkey) in front of an olive stand, two Egyptians haggling for a jade brooch, a couple of Persians selling some exquisite looking rugs, and even a few Greeks selling pottery.

"It's so full of life!" Rose said excitedly.

"Rome was the center of civilized life," the Doctor said. "Everyone wanted a piece of that action."

"So where's the Colosseum?" Rose asked. "I'd love to see it in one piece."

"Uh, this way," the Doctor said grabbing her hand and pulling her down a side street to his right. Rose rolled her eyes and followed him. She tugged on his arm to slow him down and then looped her arm through his, both smiling like kids who'd gotten rather large ice cream cones.

"You know, after the Colosseum we must check out some of the temples. While hardly anyone actually worships any of the old Roman gods they kept everything in tact because they are proud of their history," the Doctor said happily.

"So are they all Christian now?" she asked.

"Well, they proclaim to be at rate," the Doctor said. "You see, Constantine is the emperor now and he just won a major war claiming that Christ was with him and that the old Roman gods were completely fictional. You could get arrested for heresy if you don't practice Christianity in the Roman Empire now."

"Interesting, I had no idea," Rose said.

"Once we get to a temple, watch closely, you'll still see people leaving sacrifices to the statues. It's great fun to watch them," the Doctor said with a large grin.

"Don't make fun of their beliefs. How would you feel if someone made fun of your religion," Rose teased. She paused and crinkled her brow. "Do Time Lords even have a religion?"

"Not really," the Doctor explained. "You could say we worship the Great Schism I suppose, maybe even the Other. Our biggest holiday was Othersday. He wasn't a god though, we don't have any gods. Just a few arrogant leaders who thought they were."

He turned a brilliant smile on her which she returned, her tongue sticking out between her teeth. Their smiles promptly fell when a loud scream reached their ears. The crowd parted in front of them as a woman was thrown to the ground by a Roman centurion. She was sobbing, covered in dirt, and clearly in need of new clothing she clearly couldn't afford. The centurion towered above her, his short sword drawn. The Doctor scowled.

"You have been found guilty of thievery woman," he said pulling her roughly back to her feet and dragging her to the nearest stand. The vender backed up obviously not wanting to get involved. "What have you to say for yourself?"

"My children are starving!" the woman wailed. "I just wanted to feed my children!"

"Next time buy it!" the centurion spat.

"I have no money! My husband was killed in the emperor's war on heathen gods!" the woman sobbed.

"I fail to see how that's my problem," the centurion growled. "Nor that of the olive vendor you stole from."

"If your emperor actually helped his poor this wouldn't be a problem," Rose heard someone whisper off to her left. She felt incredibly sorry for this woman and wished she could help.

"Now, it's time for your punishment," the centurion continued coldly. "Do you know what punishment for theft is?" he asked placing the woman's left wrist on the vendor's stall, raising his gladius. Rose felt the Doctor start to lunge forward but before he could act, a voice shouted over the crowd.

"Blantus STOP!"

The Doctor and Rose looked off to their left. Another centurion was walking over and he looked furious. He was as different from the mean centurion as could be. While the one holding the woman's wrist was short with very dark black hair and dark brown eyes, the new centurion was taller with blonde hair and green eyes. He also wore a medallion that clearly stated his rank as higher than the other centurion. The dark centurion, Blantus, dropped the girls' wrist and she promptly collapsed on the ground.

"Captain, this woman was caught stealing. By our laws, she is to lose her left hand. You cannot rewrite our laws."

The Captain ignored him. Instead he marched right up to the woman and knelt beside her. She didn't look up. The Captain lifted her chin so she could meet his eyes.

"Lady, why are you stealing from these honest men?" he asked kindly.

"I have children that need to be fed. I have been given no relief from my government so I took matters into my own hands," the woman sniveled as two tears seeped out of the corners of her eyes. The Captain wiped them off her face.

"And so you and your children shall be taken care of," he said standing up.

"Blantus, which vendor did she steal from?" he asked.

"The olive vendor," Blantus said looking a bit happier. The Captain walked over to said vendor, a fat man with little hair on his head.

"I hope that woman is to be punished for stealing from me," he said haughtily.

"Tell me good sir, and think really hard before you answer, would it really harm your business if you gave a few olives and figs away?"

The vendor looked highly uncomfortable for a minute. He really didn't look ready to part with his product without getting something in return but he wasn't stupid enough to argue with a Roman centurion. Finally, after several minutes the man hung his headed and muttered "No,"

The captain smiled. "You're a good man," he said before taking a handful of olives and figs. The crowd began to murmur as he returned to the woman and knelt beside her. He gently placed the food in her hands. "Here we are, the greatest empire in the world and we still have people going hungry." The woman began to blubber her thanks as the Captain helped her to her feet. He turned to address the crowd. "Here. No child should go ever go hungry. We are the richest country in the world. We have plenty to spare if we stop being selfish. So the next time you deny someone food, remember that it could be you on the street corner begging for help with no relief in sight. Help your people."

Rose distinctly heard a noise of disgust come from the general vicinity of Blantus. He had a scowl on his face and she was sure that once this little scene had broken up he was going to have a few words with his superior. On the other hand, several of the bystanders were nodding in agreement and whispering amongst each other excitedly.

"Rest assured, Captain Roranicus will make sure your government hears you cries for help. Your families will be provided for. No one should be punished for things that our out of their control."

A cheer rose up as Captain Roranicus finished his speech. The woman had long since vanished into the crowd which was now converging on him to thank him and let him know just how bad it was. The Doctor clapped along with everyone else.

"I must say I am very impressed with Captain Roranicus," the Doctor said to Rose. "I didn't think a single soul would stand up for her."

"I thought they were Christian," Rose said.

"Doesn't mean that what we know as Christian values are being put into use," the Doctor said. "You see that even in the twenty-first century."

"Well, one soldier seems to take those values seriously," Rose said cheerfully.

"Yes, I think I'd like to meet Captain Roranicus," the Doctor said holding his hand out to Rose. She grinned and placed her hand in his and they strode over, the Doctor's long, brown coat swishing behind him. Captain Roranicus was now having a rather heated argument with Blantus.

"I mean no disrespect, Sir, but the law clearly states-" Blantus was saying.

"Yes but given that it's a stupid-ass law I decided to help the poor woman instead of making her life even more difficult," Captain Roranicus retorted. "You could take a leaf out of my book and learn to be kind to others. Now get back to the barracks. We will discuss this more later."

Blantus glared, slipped his gladius back in its scabbard and stormed off without another word.

"You aren't his favorite person right now, are you?" the Doctor asked. Captain Roranicus sighed as he watched his officer stalk away.

"I can't say I ever have been," he turned to face them and gave a start. He gave the Doctor a critical eye as he looked him up and down and then glanced at Rose with a little less skepticism.

"Ah, Bretons," he said still glancing up and down the Doctor.

"He's good," the Doctor said excitedly. "You're good. I take it you've been?"

"A long time ago," Captain Roranicus replied. Rose couldn't help but think that his reply sounded a bit sad and wistful. "Listen, I haven't had luncheon yet. Would you two care to join me?"

"You don't even know who we are," Rose said feeling a bit disarmed by this man.

"Strangers dine with me all the time. I'm quite popular and very well known throughout the empire. Lots of people like to meet me," Captain Roranicus replied. "I insist you dine with me."

"Uh, sure," the Doctor said. Captain Roranicus smiled and lead them down the street. He led them through the marketplace, weaving in and out of people and stalls. Soon they reached a large street off to the left with grand villas. Captain Roranicus led them down to the third villa on the left. Rose felt her jaw drop. It was beautiful. It seemed to be made of a combination of white marble and limestone. The entryway was big enough to let an elephant pass through with no problem. Every inch of it was carved with little images of animals, plants, manmade objects like pots and any number of mythological beasts or beings.

"You live here all by yourself?" Rose asked in awe. No wonder he sounded sad. Even with all his visitors it must get terribly lonely.

"Don't be ridiculous," Captain Roranicus chuckled. "I have servants. Not much for company though."

He led them inside to a very ornate entryway. He didn't stay inside though. Rose barely caught glimpses of some very fancy rooms before he led them out back on to an ornate veranda large white umbrella and little wooden stools. A servant came out and set some wine on a little wooden table along with some olives and an assortment of fruit. Then he left without saying a word.

"See what I mean?" Captain Roranicus said gesturing after the man. He sat down heavily and grabbed a handful of grapes. "Anyway, I'm really glad I ran into you, Doctor. You're the only one I can really talk to."

Rose felt the atmosphere change abruptly. The Doctor was no longer happy and carefree, He was on high alert. She didn't blame him. He hadn't gotten around to introducing himself yet. Captain Roranicus didn't seem to notice the change.

"How do you know who I am?" the Doctor asked carefully trying to keep his tone neutral.

"Since you don't recognize me this must be a past you," Captain Roranicus said. "I'll admit, I remember you saying you could change face but I didn't really believe you. Plus, I just took a really good guess. After all, who else would wear a blue suit to Ancient Rome?"

Rose giggled. It was hard not to trust this centurion even if something still felt off.

"Look, I know you have no reason to believe me but we're friends…I think," Captain Roranicus said. "I still can't decide whether you like me or whether you're just putting up with me because you're friends with my fiancée."

"That certainly sounds like him," Rose said.

"I beg your pardon?" the Doctor asked haughtily. "What does that mean?"

"You only put up with Mickey because he was my friend," Rose said. The Doctor didn't bother to respond. Instead, he looked back at the Captain.

"So would I be right in saying Roranicus isn't your real name?" he asked.

"My real name is Rory Williams. I'm from Leadworth, England, 2010," Captain Roranicus replied taking a sip of wine.

"How did you end up in Rome in 306 AD?" Rose asked sitting beside him. Rory sighed.

"Honestly, I have no idea and frankly, what little I do know I think would be considered a spoiler."

"Did I leave you behind?" the Doctor asked quietly.

"I told you to leave me," Rory said kindly. "The circumstances are complicated and it's probably best I don't go into detail. I'm guarding something until I meet up with you again…or rather the future you again. That's not why I asked you to come with me. It's Blantus."

He pulled off his plumed helmet and gestured for the Doctor to take a seat. The Doctor still looked suspicious but he sat anyway.

"Blantus has been a thorn in my side for a very long time. I don't believe he is human but I am not familiar with very many aliens. In fact, my encounters include Sexy Fish Vampires exclusively."

Rose couldn't help the giggles that erupted at this statement. "I'm sorry, what?"

"His words, not mine," Rory said pointing at the Doctor. "Anyway, I was hoping you could help. I'm not sure if he's a threat but the last time an alien turned up on this planet they tried to drown it."

"What makes you think he isn't human?" the Doctor asked after a few moments.

"Well, the man has been alive since I met him in 102 AD," Rory answered.


	6. April 2016 (again)

**A/N: I don't own Supernatural, Doctor Who or Sherlock nor would I want to. That's way too much pressure on my shoulders. As always, reviews get me motivated so the chapters come out faster. Also, I'd like to thank MaddyR, Snowfur12, professionalemail, and rebaobsessions for reviewing the last two chapters. You guys are awesome! Again I apologize for the late update, I've been working on a novel and working a lot. Anyway, enjoy this chapter!**

 **April 2016**

Dean hung up his phone and shoved it in his pocket with a growl. His gun was still trained on the man who claimed to be the Doctor. He growled in frustration. What was he supposed to do now, just let them go? He really didn't want to ride in a car with a potential shape shifter. Of course, if the man was telling the truth, then it didn't really matter. So far they hadn't tried anything and maybe Cas was still with Sam. Cas would know for sure if this guy was really a _Time Lord_ or not. If Castiel knew what a Time Lord was to begin with. Dean sighed angrily.

"You two are coming with me," he said roughly.

"Excuse me?" Clara said clearly affronted.

"Clara, just do as he says. It's best not to tempt him to pull the trigger," the Doctor said calmly. His eyes were stormy and his big eyebrows only emphasized that more. Dean tried not to let it get to him. He started forward and the two foreigners did too. They exited the restaurant and went to the only car in the parking lot. Dean unlocked the Impala and the two climbed in the back. Dean climbed into the driver's seat and set his gun beside him.

"No funny business, you hear me?" he said as he started the engine.

"Cross both my hearts and hope to regenerate," the Doctor replied miming the action on his chest. Clara snorted at Dean's confused look. Dean decided it was best not to respond. The man must crazy. No one had two hearts. Dean pulled out of the parking lot and shot down the highway. He pushed a cassette tape into the player and Styx came on.

"So where are you dragging us off to?" the Doctor asked casually. Dean didn't answer at first. He just remembered something from their conversation in the diner.

"You said your friend was in Maine?" he asked glancing at Clara through the rearview mirror.

"Yes, why?" Clara asked.

"What's your friend's name?" Dean asked.

"Molly Hooper," Clara said sounding confused.

"And what does Molly Hooper do for a living? You said she didn't take time off very often," Dean said.

"She's a pathologist at a prestigious London hospital," Clara asked. "Why?"

"So she's a doctor?" Dean asked feeling as though he was just about to tell a little boy his dog was dead.

"Yes," Clara said in exasperation. "I fail to see why you are suddenly so curious about her."

"Does she have brown hair?" Dean continued as though she hadn't spoken.

"How did you know that?" Clara asked. Dean could feel the Doctor's glare on his back.

"That was my brother on the phone back there," Dean explained. "It sounds like he was talking about your friend."

"Is she all right?" Clara asked taking on a totally different tone.

"She's…yeah, she's fine. We're heading to Maine to get her right now," Dean said.

"Oh, thank goodness," Clara sighed in relief.

He wasn't sure why he chose not to tell her the whole truth. She just seemed so innocent that he couldn't bring himself to say what she was really up to. He glanced in the mirror again and locked eyes with the Doctor. Dean looked away feeling guilty. The old man totally knew something was wrong.

"So uh, have you spoken with her since she ran off to the States?" Dean asked trying to ease away the tension.

"Not exactly," Clara said sounding a bit guilty. "I happened to be reading the newspaper at home one morning and it had said she attacked one of her friends. Then she just vanished. No one had heard from her. I assumed her co-worker would find her with no problem but he hasn't made much progress."

"Why would another doctor be able to find her?" Dean asked.

"He's not a doctor," Clara said. "He's a detective that works alongside Scotland Yard. He's the best of the best. Never known him to be stumped by a case. He could find a needle in a haystack in less than ten minutes."

"Sounds a bit fanciful," Dean said.

"He does, doesn't he? He is the real thing though. Molly adores him. Well, I say adore, in reality she's completely smitten. That's why she never goes on vacation. He never stops working and she wants to spend as much time as possible with him."

Dean found himself rolling his eyes. He would never understand why a girl would throw themselves into…well… _anything_ …just to get a man's attention. What he would give to have a proper vacation…

"I know he knows something is wrong and I know he would certainly look for her but I don't know if he'd give up. It's not like there aren't other pathologists to work with. I just can't believe she's hidden from him this long," Clara seemed to be babbling now.

"I've learned that if someone doesn't want to be found, you won't find them," Dean said.

"Yeah, but you can't hide from this guy," Clara insisted. "He's solved cold cases from when my gran was little. He's a bleeding genius."

"And who is this bleeding genius?" Dean asked feeling a bit jealous for some reason. Perhaps he was just mad that he had solved cold cases but no one would ever know he was involved in saving lives because no one would believe the circumstances.

"Sherlock Holmes, duh," Clara said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Sherlock Holmes…you mean that detective from Doyle's stories?" Dean asked.

"Sort of, I think he was named after the original Holmes," Clara said. Just then, Dean's phone rang again. Dean pulled it out of his pocket, glanced at the screen and put it up to his ear.

"This better be good news, Sam," he said.

"It could go either way," Sam said. "Apparently she's moved on."

"How do you figure that?" Dean asked.

"Because Chuck told me," Sam said simply. There was a long pause as Dean struggled with what Sam had said.

"Chuck? As in Chuck the prophet who should be six feet under?" he finally asked.

"Yep that's the one," Sam said.

"You sure it's him?" Dean asked.

"Cas says it's him," Sam said.

"So where are you?" Dean asked.

"Kansas City, Missouri. I'll text you the address," Sam said.

"Awesome, I'll see you in a few hours."

Dean hung up the phone and tossed it into the passenger seat beside his gun.

"Change of plans?" the Doctor asked.

"Only slightly," Dean replied. "We're stopping in KC."

"KC?" Clara asked.

"Kansas City," the Doctor answered as Dean's phone buzzed with the address. "Last time I was in Kansas City there were gunslingers and pioneers. It'll be delightful to see it modernized to the 21st century."

Dean just rolled his eyes and continued driving.

*Earlier that day*

He couldn't decide between Chex and Captain Crunch. He supposed he could buy both but he hardly ate cereal. He was just having a craving. He didn't want stale cereal in his house. He rubbed his forehead. Maybe he should skip cereal and just get some ibuprofen. He hadn't been sleeping well. Damn visions. Unless they weren't but they certainly felt like visions. Unless his mind was playing tricks on him and he was just going slowly insane.

"Sir, if you aren't going to grab anything could you please move?" a testy mother asked. Chuck blinked and looked around. He didn't realize just how long he had been standing there.

"Oh, sorry," he muttered grabbing a box of Rice Chex and walking away. How embarrassing. He didn't usually zone out like that in public-not without a pen and paper. He was a mess.

"Chuck?" a vaguely familiar voice asked in surprise. Chuck jumped and held his box of cereal up defensively. No one knew his real name here. His eyes grew round a 50 cent pieces when he saw who it was. Sam looked pretty much the same: wide, suspicious, surprised eyes.

"Sam?" he asked. "Is that you?" he chuckled. "You're alive! That's fantastic!"

"Of course I'm alive. What I don't understand is how _you_ are alive," Sam said, if Chuck wasn't mistaken, a little bitterly.

"Well, I may have faked my death in an attempt to escape the whole prophet thing," Chuck said. "It was more effective than I'd thought."

"Castiel said there could only be one prophet at a time," Sam said. "If you were alive that meant there were two of you."

"Well that explains the vision slow down," Chuck said. "Who's the other prophet?"

"His name was Kevin," Sam said with definite bitterness this time. It was almost cold.

"Was?" Chuck asked feeling like he was being blamed for a heinous crime.

"Yes, he was murdered by Crowley," Sam said with a glare. "While you were tucked away in your cubby hole he was trying to save the world."

Chuck glared right back. "I never asked for this. I did a lot to save this thankless planet under threat of my life. So it was too much for him I'm not really surprised. Why do you think I ran?"

"He was just a kid. He was called when he was sixteen. He thought he was done too until his mother was kidnapped by Crowley while he was off at college. He was eighteen when he was murdered. _Eighteen_ ," Sam growled. "And Crowley only went after him because you were supposedly _dead_."

Chuck felt awful. Yes, it was sad that a kid got targeted but it wasn't Chuck's fault. He just wanted to live a normal life again. Every prophet had their ups and downs and some died. It was littered across the bible. Sam shouldn't be accusing him of anything. It's not like it was easy for him even now. His pounding head was reminding him steadily of that.

"Do you still have visions?" Sam asked seemingly calming down.

"Every now and then," Chuck said a bit grudgingly. He was still upset. Sam glanced around.

"We need to talk somewhere private," Sam said. "Do you live nearby?"

Chuck sighed. He knew where this was leading. We need your help because you weren't there earlier. "Yes, but I came here to get dinner and I need milk with my cereal. Let me finish shopping and we'll head to my place."

The Impala pulled up outside a little white house sitting on a hill. The driveway and garage sat at the bottom of the hill. There were two large oak trees in the front yard that had barely started to bud. There were lightning bugs floating over the grass illuminating the blades closest to them. There was a beat up Subaru in the driveway and an old Dodge Dakota parked behind it. Dean looked out the window and took it all in.

"Well, Sam's truck is in the driveway," he said climbing out. The air was very thick and muggy outside the car. The Doctor and Clara climbed out as well. The doors slamming shut caught Dean's attention. He turned to face them.

"Now listen up you two. This is a business run so not a peep out of you, okay? This is an in and out kind of deal. Got it?" he asked. The two nodded though Dean was sure the Doctor would do as he pleased regardless. The three walked up the concrete steps and Dean rung the doorbell. A few seconds passed and Sam opened the door. He started to smile but then he saw Clara and the Doctor and it turned into a scowl.

"Dean," he sighed.

"I know, I'll explain later. Right now let's talk to Chuck," Dean said pushing past his brother into the little living room. Clara smiled at Sam as she passed him. The Doctor just glared. The whole house appeared to have hardwood floors. There was a lumpy couch and old television set in the living room. There was also a desk with a nice laptop on it. Chuck sat in a wooden dining room chair, arm resting beside the computer. He smiled half-heartedly at Dean. He had a cup of something that looked like rum in his and. Dean sat on the couch and folded his arms. Sam joined him while the other two hovered awkwardly by the front door.

"Nice to see we didn't get you killed," Dean said casually. "But straight to the point: if our little lackey isn't in West Virginia, where is she?"

"What you need to understand is that I had visions of her even before I met you. Nothing concrete, just her face and a feeling that death follows her. I never wrote about her because she never seemed relevant. She never felt as real."

"You do that pretty much everything we deal with involves death in one way or another, right? Where is she?" Dean asked impatiently.

"I don't know," Chuck said. "I just know she's not in West Virginia. Honestly, I was really hoping she was just part of my over-active imagination."

"How do you know she isn't there? Did you have a vision?" Sam asked. Chuck looked guiltily at his cup. Dean and Sam glanced at each other.

"Not exactly," Chuck started.

"You lied to them," the Doctor said. "The question is why? What are you hiding?"

"Grumpy has a point," Dean agreed grudgingly. "Why are you lying to us?"

"I had two very specific visions," Chuck said. "And a third vague one about year ago that you might be in trouble. Something to do with Crowley and who I think must have been Cain. I was trying to find you so that you wouldn't take the Mark."

"Too late for that one," Sam muttered. Dean elbowed him in the ribs.

"Yeah, I know. I saw it in the other two visions. I had one two months ago that you had met Bathsheba in Pittsburgh. Then two nights ago, I had one where you two rushed out to West Virginia with no plans and being slaughtered ruthlessly by Legion himself."

Dean sat up straighter. "You mean he's there right now? We could end his miserable existence tonight?"

"Why would you keep us from taking him out?" Sam demanded.

"Because I very much doubt you can," the Doctor cut in. Everyone looked at him. He didn't look as cool and collected as usual. If Dean didn't know better he'd say that had lost a little color.

"You know about Legion?" he asked incredulously.

"I met him a very long time ago," the Doctor said. "Back then he went by a different name. I thought he had died."

"Well he did a lousy job of it," Sam said.


	7. Rome 306 AD part II

**A/N: Hello my lovely readers! I still don't own Supernatural or Doctor Who or Sherlock but I do still love them very much! (Speaking of which, that new Sherlock episode was a doozy, huh?) Hopefully I will crank it out a little faster (or not, I'm sorry!). I'm trying to rough draft it while I am at work. I do have several chapters written it's just a matter of me typing it out and posting. Nag me if you must. As always reviews are the best and needed!**

 **306 AD**

"You've been alive for 204 years?" Rose asked skeptically. "How is that possible?"

"I'm not exactly alive," Rory explained. He knocked on his arm and a hollow echo resounded. "Plastic,"

"Nestene?" the Doctor asked in interest. Rory shrugged.

"I haven't the faintest idea," he said. "You just told me to stay away from large fires, that I wasn't indestructible."

"Does your fiancée know this?" Rose asked.

"Sort of," Rory said. "It's complicated."

"And you're sure Blantus isn't plastic too?" the Doctor asked.

"Absolutely," Rory said. "The legion I was part of was made entirely of plastic, pulled from my fiancée's mind according to you. I met him quite some time after my legion was destroyed. He was part of the guard of Londonium," he sighed as Rose giggled. "I mean London. They thought I was part of the lost legion in Scotland. I was just sort of adopted in. Blantus hated me from the get go. I think I was a little too nice for his taste. He's a bit bloodthirsty."

"So how long did it take you to realize he wasn't human?" Rose asked.

"Not too long to be honest," Rory replied. "There was a Saxon raid a few weeks after I joined the guard. He was run clean through with a spear. It didn't seem to faze him in the slightest even with the immense blood lost he acquired. He just charged up the shaft and beheaded the Saxon. Then he pulled it out of his gut and charged into the fray again."

Rose scrunched up her face in disgust but the Doctor looked thoughtful. Rory scanned his face as though looking for any sign of recognition.

"Doctor, does it sound like something you've seen?" he asked.

"Not in the slightest," the Doctor replied cheerfully. "Very interesting though." Rose and Rory exchanged a glance. The man never changed. "Tell me, Rory," the Doctor said leaning forward. "How long did it take _him_ to realize _you_ weren't human?"

Rory shrugged. "I suppose when he noticed I wasn't aging. We've never outright spoken to each other about our apparent immortality. We just sort of dance around each other."

"And no one else has noticed you two never change?" Rose asked. "I mean you've stayed in the Roman Empire this whole time someone's bound to notice."

"Funny thing about humans is that they will come up with explanations for things they don't understand. Apparently, I just look a hell of lot like my great great grandfather."

"He's got a point," the Doctor agreed. "Now, is there anything else about Mr. Blantus I should know?"

"I don't know, he thinks he's God's gift to the world? He thinks he's better than everyone else, more clever, notices things others don't; kind of reminds me of a violent you."

The Doctor scowled and Roses giggled. Rory rubbed his eyes and ran a hand down his face.

"There is one thing that's always sort of creeped me out about the guy," Rory continued. "Sometimes when he loses his temper it looks like his eyes go solid black like his pupils dilate to the point where they swallow up his whole eyeball."

"That's new," the Doctor muttered, brow furrowed.

"Like I said, the guy is creepy and sadistic. He loves hurting people and doesn't seem to react at all when he gets injured. I suppose that's why I've never seen him at church. He's not fond of priests," Rory said.

"I can't imagine why," Rose said sarcastically. "Bet he loves confessional."

"Never seen him go," Rory replied. "Not much of a surprise really. What is a surprise is that he's fluent in Hebrew."

"Hebrew?" Rose asked.

"Interesting," the Doctor murmured. "Does he speak with Jews often?"

"Not really, they don't often come to Rome and he's never been stationed in Israel. My guess is that before he was Blantus the Roman soldier he was a Jewish soldier."

"Hmm, interesting," the Doctor murmured again.

"So you keep saying," Rory said rolling his eyes. Rose bit her lip as a smile threatened to break free.

"I think a conversation with Blantus the Roman soldier is in order," the Doctor said standing abruptly. "Where are the barracks?"

"Uh, I'll show you," Rory said a bit baffled, mouth hanging open. The Doctor held his hand out to Rose and helped her up. Rory grabbed his plumed helm and replaced it on his head. The Doctor grinned broadly.

"Allon-sy!"

The barracks were a neat little village of sorts on the other side of the city. It was nearing dusk when the three arrived. Several soldiers saluted Rory as they passed through the tightly packed buildings. The trio found Blantus in the mess hall. He was sitting at the table along the back wall by himself, picking at his food.

Rory led the group over to him and slid into the seat beside Blantus. The Doctor plopped down across from Blantus with Rose sitting across from Rory. Blantus sighed and dropped his knife. He rolled his eyes dramatically and sat up. He stared at the Doctor without blinking, drinking him in. The Doctor twitched uncomfortably.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" he asked stiffly.

"This fine gentleman just has a few questions for you," Rory said. Blantus glanced briefly at Rory before looking the Doctor up and down again.

"And who, pray tell, are you? And why should I answer any of your questions?" Blantus asked. The Doctor smiled.

"I'm the Doctor and I'm simply curious, no need to feel threatened."

"Doctor who?" Blantus asked after a pause.

"Just the Doctor," the Doctor replied cheerfully.

"And what do you want 'Just the Doctor'?" Blantus sneered.

"I'm more curious about what you want," the Doctor said dropping his voice and leaning in just a bit closer. "Why are you in Rome?" '

Blantus frowned and then smiled slightly. "I live here you stupid man."

"But you haven't always lived here," the Doctor said. "Where did you live about 200 years ago? Before you joined the Roman legions and went to Anglia?"

"200 hundred years?" Blantus chuckled. "Are you mad?"

"No, it's a completely sincere and serious question. You've been around far longer than a human should have been. Where are you from?"

"Noah was over 900 years old when he died," Blantus said. "Does that make him something other than human?"

"Yes, but he's a character in a book," Rose interjected. "There's no proof he was real."

Blantus dark brown eyes snapped to her and she instinctively reached for the Doctor's hand under the table. "A non-believer, perhaps you worship heathen gods?"

"I'm an atheist," Rose said. Blantus narrowed his eyes.

"You might have just invented the word a bit too early, Rose," the Doctor said. "Regardless of Biblical characters, humans don't live that long in this day and age. So who are you really?"

"Perhaps you should be posing that question to _Captain Roranicus_ ," Blantus spat turning back to the Doctor.

"I'm well aware of his circumstances. Now quit trying to change the subject. Tell me how someone can walk away from a spear to the gut. Those can be anywhere from three to six centimeters in diameter. That's a pretty big whole to bleed from."

Blantus stared at the Doctor for a moment. He cocked his head to the side as though about to speak and crossed his arms. Suddenly, a vicious smile crossed his lips and he began to laugh. His laugh grew in volume, so much so that the whole mess hall fell silent and watched him.

"You are right of course," Blantus finally said. "Nobody could survive a wound like that. It's a good thing I am already _dead_."

Soldiers began murmuring, several placing their hands on the hilts of their swords in anticipation. The Doctor's brow furrowed and he sat up straight. Rose squeezed his hand either to reassure him or to reassure herself, he wasn't sure. Blantus unfolded his arms and pushed off the table and into a standing position.

"And now that my secret is out I suppose it is time to make a few changes around here. Sorry, _Captain_ , but your services are no longer required."

Blantus was faster than anyone anticipated. He pulled an ornate blade out of his knife sheath and slid it across Rory's throat. Several soldiers cried out and lunged forward. Rose screamed and the Doctor leapt to his feet angrily. Rory fell to the floor with a surprised look on his face. It was only a moment before realization sunk in. Rory was kneeling on the floor in shock, his head a bit wobbly but otherwise unhurt. There was no blood and no death. Blantus' eyes were wide and he took a step back.

"That's impossible-" he began before three soldiers were on top of him. Rose hopped up from her seat and rushed to Rory's side.

"Are you all right?" she asked breathlessly. Rory gingerly felt his neck and huffed.

"I'll have to melt it back together but I'll be okay. Can rip off part of my cloak so I don't lose my head?"

Rose laughed slightly hysterically as Rory winked at her. She tore part of his cloak off and tied it tightly around his neck.

"How's that?"

Rory tested his neck. "Good enough,"

Rose nodded and helped him to his feet. The Doctor was inching toward the tussle but before he'd made it two steps all three soldiers were thrown violently away from Blantus. The Doctor dove under the table to avoid being struck and Rory dragged Rose back down to the floor as one soldier flew over their heads. Rose gasped in horror as she looked at Blantus. His eyes were solid black and it was by far the creepiest thing she had ever seen. He still held the ornate, rune-covered knife in his hand. He smiled gleefully at the pair. Rory and Rose stumbled to their feet and began to back up rapidly. Rory placed himself between Rose and Blantus. Blantus laughed maniacally.

"You are one of the most interesting people I have ever met, Roranicus," he said as his eyes flicked back to their usual brown. "The soldier who does not bleed. How fascinating."

"Isn't it though?" the Doctor said from behind Blantus. The soldier whipped around just as the Doctor swung a cast iron pot with all his might at his head. The pot connected with Blantus' lower jaw with a mighty _BONG!_ Blantus screamed and fell to his knees. The flesh where the pot had made contact was smoking and appeared to be burned.

"Run!" the Doctor shouted dropping the pot, leaping over Blantus and grabbing Rose's hand. The three made a mad dash for the exit but before they'd cleared the last table, the three soldiers that had gone after Blantus appeared between them and the door quite suddenly. All three had solid black eyes.

"You are more trouble than you are worth, Doctor," the middle one said scathingly.

"You attacked my friend," the Doctor said. "It's just lucky you are allergic to pots. By the way, nice trick. Are you possessing all three of them or do you have friends?"

"Oh I have friends," the soldier to the left said. "But as of right now it is just little old me."

"How is he doing that?" Rose whispered fearfully. The right soldier looked straight at her. Rory pulled his sword out of its scabbard and levelled it toward the soldier.

"Scary, is it not?" the soldier hissed at her. "I can be in many places at once and you would not be able to tell."

"Who are you?" the Doctor demanded. "Blantus is obviously a cover."

"Do you like it?" the middle soldier asked with a wicked grin. "I picked it out specially. It means 'charming' something I excel at when I choose to."

"Charming my ass," Rory muttered.

"Your name!" the Doctor spat. "Tell me who you are!"

"Oo hoo! Someone has a temper!" the left soldier chuckled. "Why should I divulge my name when you will not even share yours?"

The Doctor ignored him.

"What is your planet of origin, galactic coordinates and species designation?!" he thundered instead. Blantus himself answered.

"Interesting questions," he said causing the trip to whip around to face him. He stood up and rubbed his face. There was an angry red burn where the Doctor had hit him. "I am from Earth of course, where else? I have no idea what galactic coordinates are but if it refers to my home then I suppose you could say I come from Jerusalem. As for species, I believe your priests call me a demon."

"What are you playing at? There's no such thing as demons!" Rory snapped though he didn't look as confident as he sounded.

"I think human possession says otherwise," Rose muttered.

"Quite the contrary, _Captain_ ," Blantus laughed. "Demons are very real and I am the last one you want to fright. In case you have yet to notice, I can possess as many people as I like at once."

"And I suggest you let them go," the Doctor replied coldly.

"Who is going to stop me? You?" Blantus guffawed.

"Only if you make me," the Doctor replied. Blantus laughed.

"You don't know who you are messing with, boy," he spat.

"I'm as much a boy as you are," the Doctor said. "I'm much, much older than I look and I have seen a lot in my lifetime."

He slowly began inching his hand into his inner coat pocket as he spoke.

"No demons I'd wager," Blantus grinned.

"Well, there was this one alien who thought he was the Devil and immortal and all powerful but I tossed him into a black hole so he's no longer a problem," the Doctor replied casually.

"You talk too much," Blantus said.

"It's a flaw I'm working on," the Doctor replied.

"You weary me with your prattle," Blantus said as thick black smoke suddenly swirled around him and engulfed him. Three tendrils shot out from him. One bounced off of Rory who flew backwards into the wall with the force of it. One shot into Rose's mouth and the other shot into the Doctor's mouth. Rory sat up and shook his head trying to reorient himself. He stared at his friends in horror as the black smoke filled their mouths. He got to his feet, picked up his sword and began to charge Blantus when several things happened at once.

The three possessed soldiers, Rose, and the Doctor all began to violently convulse. Then the black smoke spilling into the Doctor's mouth began to turn a sickly shade of green that quickly spread back to the source and out from to the other possessees. Black eyes turned green and the green smoke began to shoot out of their mouths and back at Blantus. The soldiers collapsed on the ground. Rose would have but Rory dropped his sword and dove under her to keep her from hitting her head on the ground. The Doctor fell to his knees gasping for air, his palms flat on the ground as he tried to steady his erratic breathing. Blantus stumbled back several steps as the smoke hit him full on. Rory watched him start to fade along the edges like a photograph slowly disintegrating from age.

"What have you done to me?" he wheezed in horror as he stared at his fading hands.

"I think I'm going to be sick," the Doctor groaned clutching his stomach. "I think we just learned what happens when a demon tried to possess and alien."

"He's dissolving," Rory said in alarm. The demon's fading edges were starting to turn red like glowing embers. Blantus' eyes began to pop out of his head. His head snapped around to glare at the Doctor.

"This is not over, Doctor! Legion shall return!" Blantus shouted. Then he was gone. It was as if he had never existed. The Doctor got unsteadily to his feet and began to look around the room slightly panicked. Soldiers were lined along the walls looking anywhere from confused to absolutely terrified. Rory did his best to search from the ground. Blantus was gone. Rose groaned and both men turned to her. She sat up with Rory's help and rubbed her forehead groggily.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I have no idea," the Doctor said.

&%$^&^$%*&^(*(&

"Thank you, for everything, Doctor," Rory said. The three were standing outside the TARDIS. The Doctor and Rose had stuck around for nearly a week just to make sure Blantus didn't show up again. After five of the most normal days Rose had ever experienced with the Doctor they were finally leaving. The Doctor had decided that Blantus really had been finished and Rome was no longer in danger. Rory's soldiers may have serious PTSD but nothing Romans couldn't handle.

"You're welcome," the Doctor said digging the TARDIS key out of his pants pocket. "I he does show up again don't hesitate to call. I think the Old Girl's speed dial one."

The Doctor had given Rory Rose's mobile phone just in case. He wasn't sure how often Rory got into sticky situations and he didn't want him left totally alone. He felt bad enough as it was and the whole plastic Rory thing hadn't even happened in his timeline yet.

Rose kissed Rory on the cheek. "I hope the Doctor fixes everything for you so you can be human again. You have a very lucky fiancée."

Rory blushed in appreciation. Rose laughed and patted his cheek. "Thanks, I'm sure everything will work out. I'm probably the most patient person you will ever meet but even I have my limits. I can't wait to taste food again for one thing."

The Doctor and Rose laughed as they climbed into the TARDIS. They turned around in the doorway.

"Best of luck Rory the Roman," the Doctor said with a wave. He and Rose walked inside and he shut the door. Rory stepped back as the TARDIS began to wheeze and moan obnoxiously. Rory never thought he would miss that sound but as the police box slowly faded out of existence he realized just how much he longed to hear that noise again.

 **I know, I know it's a bit late but I got it out so that's something, right? I hope you enjoyed the second half of the Rory adventure! And later you may find out what else our little demon has been up to!**


	8. August 2015 (again?)

**A/N: I still don't own Supernatural or Doctor Who or Sherlock. I do however owe you all a few dozen chapters and big fat apology for taking so long. And now that I've got time to write and post, you all owe me reviews to keep me motivated. Enjoy!**

August 2015

"What the hell was that?" Greg asked after Sherlock paused the hospital feed.

"I don't know," Sherlock said quietly. He was staring at the video with deep concentration. Greg hesitated, glancing at the detective with some worry.

"Janine dissolved into smoke," Greg stated. "And Molly swallowed her? I mean, what the hell? It looked like-"

"A demonic possession?" Sherlock supplied.

"Well, I was going to say something out of the movies but sure," Greg replied. "I really hope this is just a tampered video because this is very much not my division."

"No, tampered videos tend to ha e blurred edges. Unfortunately, I think this feed is very real and certainly explains Molly's odd behavior," Sherlock said.

"But why? She's your ex-girlfriend, was she jealous of Molly?" Greg asked.

"Why would she be jealous of Molly?" Sherlock asked. Greg shrugged.

"Women are irrational. Even if she saw you two talking just in passing she would assume something was going on."

"Not all women are as shallow as your wife," Sherlock said. Greg frowned.

"My wife has nothing to do with this."

"Janine could not have seen Molly and I together in public, Lestrade," Sherlock said standing up. "Molly and I only speak to each other in the morgue."

"Really? I got the impression you were better friends than that," Greg said quickly following Sherlock as he left the room and hurried down the hall.

"Fairly good friends, she did save my life," Sherlock replied.

"But you don't spend any time together outside of work?" Greg asked.

"I hardly spend time with anyone outside of work," Sherlock said.

"Okay, Janine and your strange relationship with Molly aside, why attack Mary?" Greg pushed on.

"I suppose it was because I was out of town," Sherlock replied.

"What makes you think you're the target?" Greg asked. "Isn't that a bit presumptuous?"

"There's a possibility that James Moriarty is behind this," Sherlock said walking out the front door. Greg stopped in his tracks for a moment.

"You mean the James Moriarty who has been dead for almost three years?" he asked.

"The very same," Sherlock said waving his hand for a cab. Greg shook his head and ran to catch up to Sherlock on the curb.

"But, how, even after the weird viral video we determined it wasn't him."

"Turns out I was wrong," Sherlock said.

"And you're okay with this?" Greg asked.

"Of course not but I'm going to take care of it," Sherlock said as a cab pulled up.

"Say I believe in demonic possession for the sake of this conversation, what does Moriarty have to do with that?"

"My brother informed me earlier this morning that Moriarty may have sold his soul to demon to prevent himself from dying. The demon possessing Molly could very well be that demon," Sherlock said opening the door to the cab.

"You're crazier than I thought," Greg said. "Where are you going?"

"To see Mycroft," Sherlock replied climbing in the car and rolling down the window. "I am woefully ignorant for this case and need to do some research. Let me know if you find any new information."

Greg nodded and the cab drove off down the road. Sherlock hardly noticed though. He was delving deep into his mind palace. This night had been a roller coaster to say the least and he needed to organize it. **New Room: Monsters; closet: werewolf; rabies on steroids: wild eyes with extremely dilated pupils, long, pointed canines, nearly indestructible (note: car and gunshot had little to know effect). Monsters; closet: demon; ability to possess humans and make them do things not normally in their nature.**

Sherlock huffed. His heart was pounding and making it difficult to concentrate. Adrenaline was making it difficult to sit still too. He was worried and it bothered him. He was also not sure why he had lied to Lestrade about his interactions with Molly. Sure, 90 percent of his time spent with her was in the morgue but it wasn't strictly limited to that. They had gone out for coffee once or twice and discussed Molly's latest paper or Sherlock's latest case. She'd invited him to a London Symphony concert because her best friend had been on call at the Hope House and could no longer attend. Perhaps those few public outings had been enough to put her on Moriarty's radar. Sherlock should have known better than to do anything in public with anyone he cared about in the slightest. He was getting careless and now Molly was suffering for it.

On top of his worry and guilt for Molly he had to wonder at how to even stop Moriarty. Clearly bullets wouldn't cut it so how could he even fight Moriarty if it came down to that? Were exorcisms a thing? Could he safely remove the demon from Molly without harming her?

"Sir, we've arrived," the cabbie said in a bored voice. Sherlock blinked and looked out the window.

"Ah, yes, thank you" he said handing over a ten pound note and getting out. He hurried up the path and back into the Diogenes Club for the second time that night. Mycroft sighed heavily when he entered the room unannounced.

"How is Mrs. Watson?" he asked.

"A bit bruised and very frightened," Sherlock answered. "It may be nothing short of a miracle to get her to talk to Molly again."

"So Ms. Hooper did attack her," Mycroft stated.

"It would appear that way," Sherlock agreed. "If I weren't so sure she was not in control of her own body at the time."

"What do you mean?" Mycroft asked eyebrows furrowed.

"In my attempt to find Molly I stopped by St. Bart's and checked the morgue camera feed. Molly had a visitor this morning; Janine," Sherlock explained.

"I was unaware that Ms. Hooper and Ms. Hawkins were acquainted," Mycroft said.

"As far as I know they aren't," Sherlock replied. "But that was by far the less worrisome or bewildering item on that video. It glitched and Molly back away from Janine before Janine dissolved into a black cloud of smoke."

Mycroft say up a little straighter. "And this smoke entered Ms. Hooper through her mouth?"

"It entered _Doctor_ Hooper that way, yes," Sherlock corrected. "Would I be correct in assuming Molly was possessed by a demon?"

"This is a rather unfortunate problem," Mycroft sighed rubbing a hand over his face. "But yes, you would be. What happened to Ms. Hawkins after the demon possessed Molly?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "I told you, she dissolved and possessed Molly."

"Sherlock, demons are spirits that have been corrupted. They do not have a body of their own, hence demonic possession. They don't do it for fun. Well, they do but the point is they cannot do anything without possessing a body first," Mycroft explained. "I need to know whether it killed Ms. Hawkins or not."

"Janine _was_ the demon, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped. " _She_ possessed Molly. Hack into the hospital feed and see for yourself."

Mycroft looked unconvinced but he got up and walked over to the wall to the left of his his desk. There was a bookcase there. He pulled a book forward and the bookcase slid up into the ceiling revealing at least a dozen screens. One showed Baker Street, one was focused on the Watson's townhome (there were still police littering the lawn), another showed the Scotland Yard precinct and yet another showed St. Bart's.

"This is extraordinarily cliché, Mycroft," Sherlock said unimpressed.

"But cheap, convenient, and profitable," Mycroft replied. A keyboard shot out under the many screens and he began to type some controls in. The screens began to buzz and show the static old televisions were known for before all of the displayed the camera in St. Bart's morgue. Mycroft punched in a date stamp and the feed rewound to earlier that day. There was Molly, getting ready for any ordinary day unaware that her life was about to take a terrible turn. Mycroft watched the feed intently before pausing it right after Molly turned to face the camera and rewinding it to just before Janine dissolved.

"How unusual," he murmured. "The glitch and the smoke suggest demon but that is not how possession works. I'll have to research this phenomena further to understand what we're dealing with. Until then do not under any circumstances go looking for Ms. Hooper. Last thing we need is her killing you."

Sherlock wanted to argue but he knew his brother was right. This was so far beyond his skill set that he was essentially useless. All he could do was go home and research the supernatural world and hope either him or his brother found something. Then, he knew he would have to let the professionals handle this particular case because his brother was right; he would probably get himself killed.

"Fine, but the moment you have something let me know," he finally said before getting up and leaving the room.

#^% ^#$$#^&*^**(

The room was silent and dark except for the soft moonlight filtering in through the gap in the curtains. A mobile phone lit up and buzzed across the bedside table. A groan issued out from under the thick comforter and a hand snuck out from underneath it and began feeling around for the phone on the table. Once the hand found the phone, a head with tousled hair emerged and glared groggily and the screen. There was a groan and the head flopped down, hand pressing the "answer" button and placing the phone by an ear.

"It is nearly midnight, Mycroft. What the hell do you want?"

"I need you to take care of a werewolf," Mycroft answered calmly.

"I thought Sally took care of the werewolf in London last month," she snapped.

"Yes, but apparently one of the victims didn't die. She moved to Bristol."

"And you know this how?" she grumbled propping herself up on one elbow.

"She attacked John and Sherlock in a park there three hours ago," Mycroft replied coolly. She sat up abruptly, the comforter falling off of her, suddenly wide awake.

"Is John okay? He wasn't bitten, was he?"

"I assure you that if he had I would have called you much sooner. Now, can I count on you to deal with this unfortunate fiasco?"

"I…yes," she sighed. "Give me ten minutes and I'll be out the door."

"One more thing," Mycroft said before she could hang up. "I'm going to send you a video clip from St. Bart's Hospital's security camera. Perhaps you can shed some light on it.

"You couldn't figure it out? The great Mycroft Holmes is stumped?" she asked as she turned on the bedside lamp.

"I don't claim to be an expert on demonic possession," Mycroft replied.

"And I am?"

"Since you have been possessed in the past I would say you have much more experience than me."

She huffed into the speaker but didn't argue.

"Glad we're on the same page. Text me when the werewolf is taken care of."

Mycroft hung up before she could reply. She stared at the phone for a moment as though it had done her a great personal before tossing it on the bedside table again. She slipped off the bed and began rummaging through her closet for something she wouldn't mind being torn or covered in blood. She settled for a pair of torn jeans and a ratty blouse that still had leprechaun blood on it. She took her clothing into the bathroom where she changed, used the toilet, and threw her short blonde hair up into a haphazard ponytail.

After checking herself in the mirror she shrugged. She opened the bathroom door, picked up her phone, and grabbed her red leather jacket off of her dressed and threw it on before heading out the door and down the hall to her living room. At the front door she grabbed her favorite combat boots and laced them on. She opened the closet door and pulled out a duffel bag, grabbed her keys off a hook near the front door and headed out.

It was about thirty minutes before she arrived at the park Mycroft had sent her via text. It was a nice little neighborhood trail. Too bad a werewolf darkened its reputation. She looked around carefully as she pulled into the parking lot. There was a massive bloodstain and shattered headlight plastic all over it. She parked near the trailhead sign and killed the engine. She didn't se anything moving in the moonlight but she knew that if the wolf was close it would have heard the car pull up. After a few moments it seemed unlikely the werewolf was waiting to spring on her, she climbed out of her car and opened the trunk. There was nothing in it but a busted table leg. She pulled it out and pried up the bottom of the trunk to reveal a large assortment of weaponry. She propped the table leg in the trunk to hold up the floor and began rummaging through the guns. Finally she found a handgun with a case of silver bullets. She also pulled out some gasoline, and matches and shoved them in the duffel. Once she felt sufficiently prepared, she closed the trunk, hoisted the bag onto her shoulder and began to track.

She started at the blood spatter and began to search for footprints. There was a set coming from the trail to the blood spot and a set wandering crookedly toward the potato field opposite the trail. She cocked the gun and slowly followed the footprints. As she stepped into the field she was grateful the farmer didn't grow corn. At least she would see and attack coming.

The field was deathly quiet. No crickets chirped, no fireflies blinking just above the leaves. The moon illuminated everything in a eerie glow. There wasn't even a breeze to rustle the plants.

She was halfway across the field when she saw something stagger to its feet. The moonlight made the sight far more horrific than it normally would have been. It was a small woman; one of her arms was facing the wrong way, clearly broken. Her eyes glowed a bit in the dark and the woman's partially crushed skull was sending chills down her spine. The werewolf opened her mouth, showing off her sharp teeth and giving a guttural growl before charging.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, fumbling with the gun for a moment before pulling the trigger. The bullet ripped through the werewolf and she dropped to the ground. She slipped the gun in the waistband of her jeans and began the arduous task of burning the evidence. It took her the better part of an hour to build a pyre, text Mycroft, and dispose of the body. By the time she made it back to her flat, the sun was nearly up. She desperately wanted to crawl back into bed but the incessant beeping of her phone reminded her of her other obligations. She sat at her desk in the living room and opened her laptop. She plugged her phone into the computer and uploaded the footage Mycroft had sent her.

She watched it several times before she decided she had seen it correctly. She could feel herself shaking but she couldn't stop. This was no ordinary possession. She knew exactly who this was and she feared the poor doctor wouldn't fair too well under its influence. And it scared her. A lot.

 **A/N: New character introduction without really introducing them. Bet some of you have already guessed who it is. Anyway, my hope is to have a chapter up every Monday in order to keep up some consistency for all of us. As always, please review!**


	9. April 2016 (Again!)

**A/N: I still don't own any of these awesome TV shows. I did get a new Castiel shirt. As always, reviews keep me writing. I've seen the traffic graph, I've seen all the new followers and I want to know what you think! Please?**

 **April 2016**

"Hang on, you're trying to tell me you met this guy in _ancient Rome_?" Chuck asked incredulously. Dean and Sam were having a hard time digesting this too. While both had no trouble believing time travel was real, neither had heard of anyone going more than 50 years in either direction. This grouchy old man was trying to tell them he'd travelled over _2,000_ years into the past.

"Yes," the Doctor said. "I met him in 306 A.D. It was the first time I met my fath-friend, Rory. I can't believe I forgot that."

"Really? How many times did you see my face before you remembered me?" Clara asked indignantly, folding her arms and raising an eyebrow.

"That was different," the Doctor said dismissively.

"How?" Clara demanded.

"It just is!" the Doctor huffed throwing his arms in the air. Clara just rolled her eyes.

"The point is," Dean cut into the strange argument. "The Doctor has faced Legion and won, even if it was just temporary. If we can figure out the mechanics maybe we can make it permanent."

"I told you, all he did was try to possess me," the Doctor said. "I don't think extra-terrestrial life is compatible for demons. I also don't think he will try that again in a hurry and that's only if he figures out I'm the same person. I didn't look the same back then."

"Then maybe that's one thing on our side," Sam said.

"What do demons have to do with anything?" Clara cut in. "I mean, they don't exist."

"Every monster you were ever afraid of; vampires, ghosts, werewolves, the Bogeyman, you name it, it's real. All of it and Sam and I, we fight them and kill them."

"What?" Clara asked, her eyes wide. "Are you mental?"

"Is it any different than space aliens?" the Doctor asked softly. Clara looked at the Doctor.

"That's different, I've seen aliens and how they get around without humans knowing but vampires and werewolves?"

"They look just like you and me until they get hungry," Dean said. "Most monsters do."

"And you just kill them?" Clara asked.

"It's better than them killing a bunch of innocent people," Sam said. "Believe me, 99% of the time monsters are no good."

"And demons?" Clara asked biting a nail on her right hand.

"Demons are the worst of the lot," Dean explained. "They don't have bodies of their own so they hijack them from people. Force their way in and use the human basically like a shield. Usually you can safely exorcise them back to hell but they like to play dirty. If they feel too threatened they might fatally wound their host body in hopes to avoid the exorcism."

"What good does that do?" Clara asked.

"My guess is that the demon keeps the host alive as long as it possesses them. Rory mentioned that Blantus got fatally injured a number of times and he was still alive," the Doctor said.

"Demons are spirits twisted and corrupted by hell," Sam explained. "They're already dead so, yeah, essentially the host lives as long as the demon allows. A lot of the hosts die because of exhaustion, dehydration and starvation."

"Makes sense since spirits don't need to eat, sleep, or drink," the Doctor said rubbing his chin. "Now when you say Legion do you mean the one that got banished into swine in the Bible?"

"The very same," Dean said leaning back casually.

"So we're dealing with a real live biblical demon," Clara said. "So is everything in the Bible true then?"

"I don't know if I'd go that far but it seems that a lot of the key players are real," Sam said. "And unfortunately Legion is one of them."

"But you've dealt with demons before, yeah? So it can't be that hard to fight him," Clara said reasonably if not a bit hysterically.

"The thing with Legion is that he isn't like other demons," Dean said. "He can-"

"Possess multiple people at once," the Doctor said. "Weren't you listening to my story at all?"

"Honestly, I tune you out a lot," Clara said blushing a bit. The Doctor rolled his eyes.

"Speaking of which, do you boys know how he does that? I always assumed demon possession was a one person at a time deal."

"I'll have to ask him when I see him," Dean said sarcastically. He turned to Chuck. "Is there any chance you have a picture of this Bathsheba?"

"As she's all over the news, yeah, I'll just do a Google search," Chuck said opening up a cheap laptop on the desk behind him and doing a quick search. He rolled off to left and the other four looked at the screen. Clara gasped.

"It's Molly!"

 **A FEW DAYS EARLIER**

Mycroft stared at his computer screen. Molly's face was plastered all over it on different news sites. She had been raising hell for some time in Australia but seemed to have moved on to the United States. So far he'd managed to keep Sherlock in the dark but it was getting harder and harder. As she neared more populous cities, as she wreaked more havoc, she made more and more news reports. It was like she was trying to catch Sherlock's attention. Mycroft was almost certain that was exactly what she was doing and he was far from happy about it. It also didn't help that many people were starting to recognize her as one of Sherlock's assistants.

Someone knocked on the door. Mycroft leaned back in his chair and said "Enter." The door opened and his best Hunter walked in. She was dressed in jeans and a Beatles t-shirt, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looked as tired as he felt with dark bags under her eyes and a pale, drawn look to her face.

"You called?" she yawned. She plopped down in the chair across from Mycroft's desk.

"Yes, I apologize for calling so soon after the vampire nest in Hampshire but this was fairly urgent," Mycroft said. "I believe I have located Miss Hooper-"

"Bathsheba,"

Mycroft frowned. "She was last seen crossing the New Brunswick border into Maine. It looks like she's meandering through the continent in such a way as to hit as many towns as possible."

"What do you expect me to do? I refuse to face her without a hell of a lot of back up."

"I have been informed that the Winchesters are on her case. Sally called Sam a few hours ago to set up a meeting. She'll be meeting you at the airport in four hours."

She sat up a little straighter, her eyes wide as she stared at Mycroft. " _The_ Winchesters? As in _Sam_ and _Dean_ Winchester? The Sam and Dean who stopped the _Apocalypse_ and _Leviathan_? _Those_ Winchesters?"

"Precisely," Mycroft said. "I think it prudent you set up a proper rendezvous once you get to the States. Mol-Bathsheba's moving fast so she may not be in Maine once you get there. Especially since the flight will take you to New York. As you said, you'd want a hell of a lot of back up and I believe the Winchesters are the best back up you could ask for."

"Not to sound too terribly excited but thank you for this," she said.

"You and Sally are my best operatives. I wouldn't send anyone else," Mycroft said.

"Am I right in assuming this is a covert mission to keep Legion out of the know?" she asked.

"That would be for the best," Mycroft said. "If this could be done as quietly as possible, Sherlock need not get involved. He's getting impatient. If he has to wait too much longer he may do something rash."

"I didn't think you Holmes boys did anything rash," she smirked.

"Sherlock jumped off a building and blew a man's brains out because his friends were in danger," Mycroft said drily. "I'd hate to see what he'd do to protect Molly."

"What makes her so special?"

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock may not know it yet but I've seen how protective he's been of Molly since the Moriarty video."

She snorted. "Bet John thinks it's funny."

"I doubt John has any idea," Mycroft said. "I've got a contact in New York who can help you get set up. I've told him your name is Harriet Radcliffe and that you specialize close range combat. I also specified that you had first hand demon experience."

"Mostly true," agreed "Harriet." She stood up and stretched. "Does Sally have my ticket?"

"Yes, you best go pack and head to the airport. You do only have a few hours till your flight leaves."

"If I weren't about to go meet the Winchesters, I would be so cross right now," Harriet said as she left the room. Mycroft just chuckled.

&^#%$ #^%&$*&%

Clara sat on Chuck's couch in horrified shock. The Doctor knelt before her, his hand on her knee as he attempted to murmur comforting words to her. She simply stared ahead his words rolling over her.

"I didn't mean to break her," Chuck told Sam and Dean.

"To be fair, it's not every day you find out your best friend got possessed and turned into a psychotic serial killer," Dean replied. Sam glared at his brother.

"Was that necessary?" he hissed.

"Look we have bigger problems than that Sammy. This situation went from gank the demon to something more personal. We now need to safely separate Bathsheba from Molly."

"Wouldn't you have done that before?" Chuck asked. Sam and Dean didn't reply.

"So what do you propose we do, Dean?" Sam asked. Dean sighed.

"I don't know."

Just then, Dean's phone went off in his pocket. He frowned and dug it out.

"It's a blocked call," he said preparing to press the ignore button.

"Answer it," the Doctor said standing up.

"What? But it's a blocked call," Chuck said nervously.

"Yes and it could be the demon trying to contact us or help that wants to remain anonymous just in case they have the wrong number. Either way, we get information. Answer it," the Doctor repeated. Dean sighed again and pushed answer.

"Hello?"

"Is this Dean Winchester?" a woman's voice asked. _British_ he mouthed at Sam nodding at Clara and the Doctor for emphasis. Sam nodded in understanding.

"Who's asking?" he asked aloud.

"My name is Harriet Radcliffe. My partner, Sally Rodchester, called your brother a few hours ago about a lead on Legion."

"Okay," Dean prompted.

"Well I know more, particularly about his general, Bathsheba. You know, the demon possessing the doctor going around and slaughtering groups of people? I don't want to go into detail over the phone so is there someplace we can meet?"

"How do I know this isn't some sort of trap? How do I know you aren't Bathsheba?" Dean asked.

"How do you know this isn't?" Harriet replied.

"Touché," Dean agreed. "Why does Britain want to help? To save face?"

"My boss's brother is very close to the possessed and he would like her back. Plus, I've got extensive background on Legion and his lackeys."

"Hang on one moment," Dean said. He pulled his phone away from his ear and covered the mouthpiece. "This woman says she's Sally's partner and wants to meet up to talk demons, specifically Legion. Says she got tons of info. What do you think? Should we risk it?"

He was looking at Sam but the Doctor spoke first. "Yes, she's the only lead we have."

Dean wanted to argue but Sam just shrugged so Dean decided to hold his tongue. He put the phone back up to his ear.

"All right, meet us in Illinois. I'll send you the address."

"Why not just tell me now?" Harriet asked.

"I haven't decided on which safe house to use," he replied before hanging up. Sam quirked an eyebrow.

"Dean, we only have one safe house in Illinois."

Dean ignored him.

 **A/N: Whoo hoo! I finally finished this chapter. Man it was hard. I changed a few things from an earlier chapter but didn't in my written one and by the time I caught it I realized I was a week behind! GAH! Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter. Also, for those who want to know the time line: This is before the last episode of season 10 of Supernatural, After Sherlock season 3, and sometime before the end of season 9 of Doctor Who. Hope to hear from all you readers. I've had a lot of traffic but no reviews! Please review! Please?**


	10. December 1895

**A/N: So as I said in the last chapter I messed up and I'm still behind but I'm trying! This chapter's gonna change it up again. More time travel! Woot! Still don't own any of the shows. Dean, Sam, The Doctor, Clara, Sherlock, etc are not mine.**

 **December 1895**

London was quiet. A soft new snow was falling and covering the usually bustling city with a blanket of white. A few carriages braved the weather but most folks had opted to stay inside by the fire. Detective Inspector Lestrade desperately wished he could be one of those people. Instead, he was standing outside an old hunting cabin in knee deep snow waiting for the medic to give him a verdict on the dead man inside. He tucked his head into his armpits and stamped his feet to try and warm up.

A large, beefy man with broad shoulders came out of the cabin. He was wearing a white medical coat and carrying a white bag with a red cross on it. Hi brown hair was combed and parted neatly down the middle. He had large mutton chops that connected to the bushy mustache he was currently running his hands over in thought.

"What is the diagnosis, Doctor Hooper?" Lestrade asked.

"Well, I highly doubt that Mr. Beckham ripped his own intestines out," Doctor Hooper replied bluntly. "There were trace amounts of some weird black sludge coming out of his nose, eyes, ears, and mouth. I would call in Mr. Holmes."

Lestrade shook his head and sighed in disgust. It couldn't have been an ordinary homicide.

"Dimmock!" he called across the field in front of the cabin. "I need to go into the city and fetch Mr. Holmes!"

A very tall, skinny officer with a walrus mustache scowled but began to untie his horse. It was common knowledge that Dimmock and Holmes did not get along. Dimmock found Holmes a bit egotistical and Holmes found Dimmock patronizing.

It was another hour before Dimmock returned with not only Mr. Holmes in tow but his associate and friend, Dr. Watson. The three men climbed off their horses and tied them up. Both Holmes and Watson grabbed briefcases and headed for the cabin. Both nodded at Lestrade when they reached him in the entryway.

"What have you got for us, Lestrade?" Holmes asked. Lestrade leaned forward and the other two men followed suit.

"I think it was ghost possession. Dr. Hooper found ectoplasm all over the victim," Lestrade whispered. Holmes nodded grimly and walked inside, motioning for Watson to follow.

The place was a grisly mess. The metallic scent of drying blood didn't mix well with the piney scent of the cabin itself. The victim lay sprawled out on the floor in front of the fireplace. His body had been ripped open just below the breast bone clear to his genitals. His intestines, liver, stomach, and various other organs were in a bloody puddle beside him.

"This is revolting," Watson said scrunching up his nose.

"I have never known angry spirits to be good house guests, Jonathon," Holmes responded as he slowly examined the room with his eyes. Watson rolled his own and settled down in a clean space beside the body. Holmes walked over to end table and set his case on it, popping it open. There were no papers inside. Instead, it was filled with pistols, bullets made of iron and silver, a small iron crowbar, salt pellets and holy water. He pulled out the crowbar and shut the case.

"I'm going to head upstairs and see what I can learn about the original owner of the place," he told Watson. Watson grunted in reply as he examined the ectoplasm around the victim's mouth.

There was one room at the top of the staircase. It contained a cot, a trunk and a wolf skin rug. There were hardly any personal items and present. The cot was moldy, the trunk wood was rotting and he was pretty sure there were bugs crawling in the skin. No living thing had been here in a very, very long time. The victim's suitcase was up here as well. It was in decent condition, used but not beaten. There was a half-put-together rifle poking out of the suitcase. Holmes walked over and pulled it out. He popped open there barrel and examined the bullets. There was rock salt pellets jammed in it haphazardly. The victim had been a Hunter.

Watson was just packing up his things when Holmes came back downstairs. He slipped off the gloves he'd been wearing and tossed them aside.

"Find anything a ghost would be holding onto?" he asked.

"No but I did find a half-loaded rifle filled with rock salt. I think our victim was a poorly trained Hunter," Holmes replied.

"How unfortunate," Watson said standing up. "He should have brought back up."

"We should go read up on this place," Holmes said. "We need to find out all we can about the ghost inhabiting this place."

Watson nodded. Both men closed their briefcases and exited the cabin. Lestrade was speaking with Dr. Hooper in hushed tones by the morgue's carriage. Holmes and Watson promptly joined them.

"You're welcome to take care of the body now, Dr. Hooper," Watson said. "I believe I collected everything of use."

"Was I correct in assuming this was one of your type of case?" Dr. Hooper asked.

"Most assuredly," Dr. Watson replied. Dr. Hooper nodded, grabbed his things and marched back to the cabin. Lestrade folded his arms watching Holmes.

"All right Holmes, what has got you all hot and bothered?" he asked.

"The victim came here intending to dispose of the ghost," Holmes said quietly. "Most likely new to the Hunt."

Lestrade flinched. "Poor sod,"

"I need to do some research. I will let you know what I find," Holmes said briskly walking off to his horse. Watson smiled apologetically.

"Sorry, you know how he gets when he is thinking."

Lestrade brushed it aside with a wave of his hand. "Just keep me informed."

^&$% ^ #%^&%*

"I do not understand," Watson sighed tossing a stack of old police reports on the table and leaning back in his chair. He rubbed his eyes. "Every death in the cabin has been different. Ghosts kill people the same way every time."

"Perhaps there is more than one ghost," Holmes mumbled flipping through some old coroner's reports. "I cannot find a single death in a hunting cabin north of here that did not have clear signs of supernatural involvement. How can there be no original death? This is so damn frustrating!"

"Maybe dinner and a good night's rest would help," a woman's voice drifted in. Holmes started guiltily and he turned around in his chair to face the hallway. A woman stood in the doorway wearing a white house gown. Her long, dark hair was loose and hanging over one shoulder. She held a small candle dish in one hand.

"Evelyn, I thought you were asleep," he said trying not to sound guilty too.

"It is very hard to sleep when you know your husband is downstairs working himself to death," Evelyn replied tartly. She smiled slightly at Watson. "Hello, Jon."

"Hello, Evelyn," Watson replied back. "What time is it?"

"Nearly midnight," Evelyn answered. "Martha is probably worried sick."

Watson flinched. "I need to go, Holmes. Martha is going to ring my neck."

He stood up, grabbed his hat and coat, bowed to Evelyn and left the room. Evelyn listened for the front door to open and shut before moving. She set her candle down on the table and walked up behind her husband. She slowly slid her hands down his shoulders and onto his chest before sliding them back up and wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Come to bed, Sherlock. You are exhausted. It will not do you any good to stay up all night."

"I know, I just cannot sleep knowing that there is a mystery I have not solved. Especially when innocent people can get hurt," Holmes sighed rubbing his eyes. Evelyn smiled placed a gentle kiss on his temple.

"I know Hunters are not usually the victims but sometimes it happens. I know you like to think you can save everyone but you are just one man. And men need to sleep to properly function, especially if that man's daughter has a piano recital tomorrow evening that he promised to go to."

Holmes groaned. "Lydia's recital is tomorrow?"

"I will not tell her you forgot but yes, and you promised Benjamin you would go riding with him this week."

"Yes, I know," Holmes sighed placing a kiss on one of her hands. "I will be at the recital and I will take Ben riding."

"You better be or I will be worse to contend with than an angry spirit," Evelyn replied. Holmes chuckled.

"I do not doubt it in the slightest. Well, let me put these all away and I will be right up."

"Okay, and I will be waiting," Evelyn said kissing him soundly before picking up her candle and disappearing down the hall. Holmes smiled slightly as he watched her leave. Then he slowly began shuffling papers together when one document caught his eye. It wasn't a death certificate but a complaint to the police. A little over a month ago, a grave had been desecrated and all the precious jewels stolen. A week later the body was reported missing. The body belonged to Duchess Arabella Stanton. Holmes began to rattle his brain. People had been dying in that cabin for about a month. This duchess had been missing for a month. Had someone stolen a body in order to use the spirit attached to it?

&^^# $%#$^&*

Watson opened his front door sleepily. He groaned when he saw his best friend standing on his front porch.

"Holmes, it is two in the morning. Did not Evelyn tell you to go to sleep?"

"Yes, but we need to go back to the cabin. Do grab your coat and some boots. We must leave quickly," Holmes said jumping down the steps and hurrying to his horse.

"Sherlock, I am not gallivanting around London in the middle of the night in my night clothes!" Watson hissed.

"Then by all means change, Jon," Holmes hissed back. Watson grumbled under his breath but he knew that Holmes would just keep nagging until he followed. So much for sleeping.

A half an hour later the two men stood outside the cabin, pistols loaded with salt rounds and both carrying an iron poker.

"So, what exactly are we doing? You failed to explain on the way over."

"I believe that someone is using a ghost to lure people here."

"Why would someone do that?"

"I do not know. That is why we are here, Jonathon," Holmes said shaking his head and slowly opening the door. "I am going to ask the ghost if she knows."

Watson stared incredulously after his friend as Holmes stepped into the house. He quickly followed.

"You want to have a civil conversation with a _ghost_?"

"I do not believe she is an angry spirit yet so it should be quite civil, yes," Holmes said. He slipped his poker in one of his belt loops and pulled his match box out of his pocket and began to light some of the candles. They cast an eerie glow on the room.

"Hello?" Holmes called out startling his friend as his voice echoed through the silent house. "I am speaking to the spirit who dwells here."

The two men stood back to back in the center of the room, silent and listening for any little sound to indicate the spirit was listening, eyes darting every which way nervously.

"I am speaking to Duchess Arabella Stanton. We are not here to harm you. We just want to ask you a few questions."

The candlelight flickered.

"Then why do you carry guns full of salt and poles of iron?" a sad voice asked. The two men jumped and turned to face the staircase. A pale woman in funeral garb stood on the stairs. She looked miserable. She faded out and reappeared uncomfortably close to Holmes.

"Precaution," Holmes swallowed nervously. "I have reason to believe someone is controlling you."

The ghost raised her eyebrow. "You are the first to have suggested this. Why?"

"You died after a full and rewarding life at the age of sixty-eight. You have no reason to be holding on. Plus, your grave was robbed," Holmes explained eyeing the ghost as she circled them.

"You are correct," she said after a moment. "I was summoned back by a witch. She bound me to my body and hid it where no one could find it."

"Why would a witch do such a thing?" Watson asked.

"She did it for a demon," the ghost said glumly. "He wanted to lure Hunters here so he could play with them."

The two men tensed. Watson gulped and looked around. "Did we just walk into a trap?"

"Quite possibly," Holmes whispered. "Who is the demon?"

"I do not know his name but I do know the witch."

"Oh?"

"Her name is Charlotte Adler."

 **A/N: So? What do you think? This will be explained better later on, you know the whole two Sherlocks and ya da ya da. Hope to see some reviews!**


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